riiiiiiiiiii 





'(. the ■wood ttiicL jiekl 

' life remaine 

r\.g "brakies and -verdant plaijis 

r food. or pastime yeild. 




Ill set mc doira. and. siiig and '^spm 
'•vTme laigli descemds tic smmer snoa 
Blest -wi' coiit(3it and -rmn^ and meal- 
leeze me on lay sjpimiinp- -wrlieel. 



^J.k.UJ'.JafK^s ChM-yi^.nuu 



THE WORKS 



OF 



ROBERT BUENS: 



AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 



Criticism on l)t0 tUritings 



TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED. 



SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF 
THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 



BY JAMES CURRIE, M. D. 



IXCLUDIKO 



ADDITIONAL POEMS, 



EXTRACTED FROM THE LATE EDITION EDITED BY 
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



CINCINNATI: 

PUBLISHED BY J. A. & U. P. JAMES, 

WALNUT ST., BET. FOURTH & FIFTH. 

Sfereotypcd by James & Co. 

1851. 






m. HUTCHESON, 
1 >'.'U5 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



THE AUTHOR. 



Robert Burns was born on the 29th day of Janua- 
ry. 1759, in a small house about two miles from the 
town of Ayr in Scotland. The family name, which 
the poet modernized into Burns, was originally Burnes 
or Burness. His father, AVilliam, appears to have 
been early mured to poverty and hardships, which he 
bore w^ith pious resignation, and endeavored to allevi- 
ate by industry and economy. After various attempts 
to gam a livelihood, he took a lease of seven acres of 
land, with a view of commencing nurseryman and pub- 
lic gardener; and having built a house upon it with his 
own hands, (an instance of patient ingenuity by no 
means uncommon among his countrymen in humble 
life.) he married, December, 1757, Agnes Brown.* 
The first fruit of his marriage was Robert, the sub- 
ject of the present sketch. 

In his sixth year, Robert was sent to school, where 
he made considerable proficiency in reading and writ- 
mg, and where he discovered an inclination for books 
not very common at so early an age. About the age 
of thirteen or fourteen, he was sent to tlie parish school 
of Dalrymple, where he increased his aquaintance 
with English Grammar, and gained some knowledge 
of the French. Latin was also recommended to him; 
but he did not make any great progress in it. 

The far greater part of his time, however, was em- 
ployed on his fathers farm, which, in spite of much in- 
dustry, became so unproductive as to involve the fam- 
ily in great distress. His father having taken another 
farm, the speculation was yet more fatal, and involv- 
ed his affairs in complete ruin. He died, February 
13, 17S4, leaving behind him the character of a good 
and wise man. and an affectionate father, who. under 
all his misfortunes, struggled to procure his children 
an excellent education : and endeavored, both by pre- 
cept and example to form their minds to religion and 
virtue. 

It was between the fifteenth and sixteeenth year of 
his age, that Robert first '-committed the sin of rhyme." 
Having formed a boyish atfection for a female who 
was his companion in the toils of the field, he compos- 
ed a song, which, however extraordinary from one at 
his age, and in his circumstances, is far inferior to any 
of his subsequent performances. He was at this time 
'•an ungainly, awkward boy.'' unacquainted with the 
world, but who occasionally had picked up some no- 
tions of history, literature, and criticism, from the few 
books within his reach. These he informs us, were 
Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical Grammars, the 
Spectator, Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 
Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon, 
l/ocke's Ess.iy on the Human Understanding. Stack- 
house's History of the Bible, Justice's British Garden- 
er's Directory, Boyle's Lectures. Allan Ramsay's 
"Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, 
a Select Collection of F.nglish Song.s, and Hervey"s 
Meditations. Of this motley assembl.-.ge, it may read- 
ily bo supposed, that some would be studied, and. some 

*This excellent woman is still living in tUe fiuiiiy of her son Gilbert, 
I Way, 1813.) 



read superficially. There is reason to think, however, 
that he perused the works of the poets with such at- 
tention, as, assisted by his naturally vigorous capaci- 
ty, soon directed his taste, and enabled him to discrim- 
inate tenderness and sublimity from affectation and 
bombast. 

It appears that from the seventeenth to the twenty- 
fourth year of Robert's age, he made no considerable 
literary improvement. His accessions of knowledge, 
or opportunities of reading, could not be frequent, 
but no external circumstances, could prevent the 
innate peculiarities of his character from displaying 
themselves. He was distinguished by a vigorous 
understanding, and an untameable spirit. His resent- 
ments were quick, and, although not durable, express- 
ed with a volubility of indignation which could not 
but silence and overwhelm his humble and illiterate 
associates ; while the occasional effusions of his muse 
on temporary subjects, which were handed about in 
manuscript, raised him to a local superiority that 
seemed the earnest of a more extended fame. His 
first motive to compose verses, as has been already no- 
ticed, was his early and warm attachment to the fair 
sex. His favorites were in the humblest walks of 
life ; but during his passion, he elevated them to Lau- 
ras and Saccharissas. His attachments, however, 
were of the purer kind, and his con.stant theme the 
happiness of the married state ; to obtain a suitable 
provision for which, he engaged in partnership w^ith 
a flax-dresser, hoping, probably, to attain by degrees 
the rank of a manufacturer. But this speculation was 
attended with very little success, and was finally end- 
ed by an accidental fire. 

On his father's death he took a farm in conjunction 
with his brother, with the honorable view of providing 
for their large and orphan family. But here, too, he 
was doomed to be unfortunate, although, in his broth- 
er Gilbert, he had a coadjutor of excellent sense, a 
man of uncommon powers both of thought and ex- 
pression. 

During his residence on this farm he formed a con- 
nexion with a young woman, tlie consequences of 
which could not be \ong concealed. In this dilemma, 
the imprudent couple agreed to make a legal acknowl- 
edgment of a private marriage, and projected that she 
should remain with her father, while he was to go to 
Jamaica " to push his Ibrtune." This proceeding, 
however romantic it may appear, would have rescued 
the lady's character, accordingtotlie laws of Scotland, 
but it did not salisty her lather, who insisted on hav- 
ing all the written documents respecting their marriage 
canceled, and by this unteeling measure, he intended 
that it should be rendered void. Divorced now from 
all he held dear in the world, he had no resource but 
in his projected voyage to Jamaica, which was pre- 
vented by one of those circumstances that in coinmon 
cases, might pass without observation, but which 
eveiUually laid the foundation of his I'uture fame. 
For once, his ■pocerty stood his friend. Had he been 
provided with money to pay tor his passage to Jamaica, 
iii 



IT 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



he might have set sail, and been forgotten. But he 
was destitute of every necessary for the voyage, and 
was therefore advised to raise a sum of money by 
publishing his poems in the way of subscription. 
They were accordingly printed at Kilmarnock, in the 
year 1786, in a small volume, which was encouraged 
by subscriptions tor about 350 copies. 

It is hardly possible to express with what eager ad- 
miration these poems were everywhere received. 
Old and young, high and low, learned and ignorant, 
all were alike delighted. Such transports would nat- 
urally find their way into the bosom of the author, 
especially when he found that, instead of the necessi- 
ty of flying from his native land, he was now encour- 
aged to go to Edinburgh and superintend the publica- 
tion of a second edition. 

In the metropolis, he was soon introduced into the 
company and received the homage of men of litera- 
ture, rank, and taste ; and his appearance and behav- 
ior at this time, as they exceeded all expectation, 
heightened and kept up the curiosity which his works 
had excited, lie became the object of universal 
admiration, and feasted, and flattered, as if it had 
been impossible to reward his merit too highly. But 
what contributed principally to extend his fame into 
the sister kingdom, was his fortunate introduction to 
Mr. Mackenzie, who. in the 97th paper of the Lounger, 
recommended his poems by judicious specimens, and 
generous and elegant criticism. From this time, 
whether present or absent. Burns and his genius 
were the objects which engrossed all attention and 
all conversation. 

It cannot be surprising if this new scene of life, 
produced effects on Burns which were the source of 
much of the unhappiness of his future life: for while 
he was admitted to the company of men of taste, and 
virtue, he was also seduced, by pressing invitations 
into the society of those whose habits are too social 
and inconsiderate. It is to be regretted that he had 
little resolution to withstand those attentions which 
flattered his merit, and appeared to be the just respect 
due to a degree of superiority, of which he could not 
avoid being conscious. Among his superiors in rank 
and merit, his behavior was in general decorous and 
unassuming ; but among his more equal or inferior 
associates, he was himself the source of the mirth of 
the evening, and repaid the attention and submission 
of his hearers by sallies of wit, which, from one of 
his birth and education, had all the fascination of won- 
der. His introduction, about the same time, into con- 
vivial clubs of higher rank, was an injudicious mark 
of respect to one who was destined to return to the 
plow, and to the simple and frugal enjoyments of a 
peasant's lite. 

During his residence at Edinburgh, his finances 
were considerably improved by the new edition of his 
poems; and this enabled him to visit several other 
parts of his native country. He left Edinburgh, May 
6, 1787, and in the course of his journey was hos- 
pitably received at the houses of many gentlemen 
of worth and learning. He afterwards traveled into 
England as far as Carlisle. In the beginning of June 
he arrived in Ayrshire, after an absence of six months, 
during which he had experienced a change of fortune, 
to which the hopes of few men in his situation could 
have aspired. His companion in some of these tours 
was a Mr. Nicol, a man who was endeared to Burns 
not only by the warmth of his friendship, but by a 
certain congeniality of sentiment and agreement in 
habits. This sympathy, in some instances, made our 
poet capriciously fond of companions, wliOj in the 
eyes of men of more regular conduct, were insuffer- 
able. 

During the greater part of the winter of 1787-8, Burns 
again resided in Edinburgh, and entered with peculiar 
relish into its gayeties. But as the singularities of his 
manner displayed themselves more openly, and as the 
novelty of his manner wore off, he became less an 
object of general attention. He lingered long in this 
place, in hopes that some situation would have been 
offered which might place him in independence : but 
as it did not seem probable that anything of that kind 



would occur soon, he began seriously to reflect that 
tours of pleasure and praise would not provide for the 
wants of a family. Influenced by these considerations 
he quilted Edinburgh in the month of February, 1788. 
Finding himself master of nearly £500, from the sale 
of his poems, he took the farm of Ellisland, near Dum- 
fries, and stocked it with part of this money, besides 
generously advancing £200 to his brother Gilbert, who 
was struggling with difficulties. He was now legally 
united to Mrs. Burns, who joined him with their child- 
ren about the end of this year. 

Quitting now speculation for more active pursuits, 
he rebuilt the dwelling-house on his farm ; and during 
his engagement in this object, and while the regula- 
tions of the farm had the charm of novelty, he passed 
his time in more tranquillity than he had lately expe- 
rienced. But, unfortunately, his old habits were rath- 
er interrupted than broken. He was again invited 
into social parties, with the additional recommenda- 
tion of a man who had seen the world, and lived with 
the great ; and again partook of those irregularities for 
which men of warm imaginations, and conversational 
talents, find too many apologies. But a circumstance 
now occurred which threw many obstacles in his way 
as a farmer. 

Burns very fondly cherished those notions of inde- 
pendence, which are dear to the young and ingenuous. 
But he had not matured these by reflection ; and he 
was now to learn, that a little knowledge of the world 
will overturn many such airy fabrics. If we may 
form any judgment, however, from his correspondence, 
his expectations were not very extravagant, since he 
expected only that some of his illustrious patrons 
would have placed him, on whom they bestowed the 
honors of genius, in a situation where his exertions 
might have been uninterrupted by the fatigues of 
labor, and the calls of want. Disappointed in this, 
he now formed a design of applying for the office 
of exciseman, as a kind of resource in case his ex- 
pectations from the farm should be baffled. By the 
interest of one of his friends, this object was accom- 
plished ; and after the usual forms were gone through, 
he was appointed exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly cal- 
led, ganger of the district in which he lived. 

"His farm was now abandoned to his servants, 
while he betook himself to the duties of his new ap- 
pointment. He might still, indeed, be seen in the 
spring, directing his plow, a labor in which he excel- 
led, or striding, with measured steps, along his turned- 
up furrows, and scattering the grain in the earth. 
But his farm no longer occupied the principal part of 
his care or his thoughts. Mounted on horseback, he 
was found pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, 
among the hills and vales of Nithsdale." 

About this time, (1792,) he was solicited to give his 
aid to Mr. Thomson's Collection of Scottish Songs. 
He wrote, with attention and without delay, lor this 
work, all the songs which appear in this volume ; to 
which we have added those he contributed to John- 
son's Musical Museum. 

Burns also found leisure to form a society for pur- 
chasing and circulating books among the farmers of 
the neighborhood ; but these, however praiseworthy 
employments, still interrupted the attention he ought to 
have bestowed on his farm, whicii became so unpro- 
ductive that he found it convenient to resign it, and, 
disposing of his stock and crop, removed to a small 
house which he had taken in Dumfries, a sliort lime 
previous to his lyric engagement witn Mr. Thomson. 
He had now received from the Board of Excise, an 
appointment to a new district, the emoluments of 
which amounted to about seventy pounds sterling 
per annum. 

While at Dumfries, his temptations to irregularity, 
recurred so frequently as nearly to overpower his res- 
olutions, and which he appears to have ibrmed with a 
perfect knowledge of what is right and prudent. Dur- 
ing his quiet moments, however, he was enlarging his 
fame by those admirable compositions he sent to Mr 
Thomson : and his temporary sallies and flashes of 
imagination, in the merriment of the social table, etill 



OF THE AUTHOR 



bespoke a genius of wondorful strength and captiva- 
tions. It has heen said, indeed, tliat extraordinary 
as his poet?7s are, they afford but inadequate proof 
of the powers of their author, or oi tliat acuteness 
of observation, and expression, he displayed on com- 
mon topics in conversation. In the society of per- 
sons of taste, he could refrain from those indul- 
gences, which, among his more constant companions, 
probably formed his chief recommendation. 

The emoluments of his office, which now compo- 
sed his whole fortune, soon appeared insufficient for 
the maintenance of his family. He did not, indeed, 
from the first, expect that they could; but he had 
hopes of promotion, and would probably have at- 
tained it, if he had not forfeited the favor of the 
Board of Excise, by some conversations on the 
state of public affairs, which were deemed highly 
improper, and were probably reported to the Board 
in a way not calculated to lessen their effect. That 
he should have been deceived by the affairs in 
France during the early periods of the revolution, is 
not surprising; he only caught a portion of an en- 
thusiasm which was then very general ; but that he 
should have raised his imagination to a warmth be- 
yond his fellows, will appear very singular, when 
we consider that he had hitherto distinguished him- 
self as a Jacobite, an adherent to the house of Stew- 
art. Yet he had uttered opinions which were thought 
dangerous ; and information being given to the 
Board, an inquiry was instituted into his conduct, 
the result of which, although rather favorable, was 
not so much so as to reinstate him in the good opinion 
of the commissioners. Interest was necessary to 
enable him to retain his office ; and he was informed 
that his promotion was deferred, and must depend on 
his future behavior. 

He is said to have defended himself on this occa- 
sion, in a letter addressed to one of the Board, with 
much spirit and skill. He wrote another letter to a 
gentleman, who, hearing that he had been dismissed 
from his situation, proposed a subscription for him. 
In this last, he gives an account of the whole trans- 
action, and endeavors to vindicate his loyalty; he 
also contends for an independence of spirit, which 
he certainly possessed, but which yet appears to have 
partaken of that extravagance of sentiment which 
is fitter to point a stanza than to conduct a life. 

A passage in this letter is too characteristic to be 
omitted. — ''Often," says our poet, 'in blasting an- 
ticipation have I listened to some future hackney 
scribbler, with heavy malice of savage stupidity, ex- 
ultingly asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the 
fanfaronade of independence to be found in his 
works, and after having been held up to public view, 
and to public estimation, as a man of some genius, 
yet quite destitute of resources within himself to 
support his borrowed dignity, dwindled into a pal- 
try exciseman; and slunk out the rest of his insig- 
nificant existence, in the meanest of pursuits, and 
among the lowest of mankind." 

This passage has no doubt often been read with 
sympathy. That Burns should have embraced the 
only opportunity in his power to provide for his fam- 
ily, can be no topic of censure or ridicule, and how- 
ever incompatible with the cultivation of genius the 
business of an exciseman may be, there is nothing 
of moral turpitude or disgrace attached to it. It was 
not his choice, it was the only help within his reach, 
and he laid hold of it. But that he should not have 
found a patron generous or wise enough to place 
him in a situation at least free trom allurements to 
"the sin that so easily beset him," is a circumstance 
on which the admirers of Burns have found it pain- 
ful to dwell. 

Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th number of the lioun- 
ger, after mentioning the poet's design of going to 
the West Indies, concludes that paper in words to 
which sufficient attention appears not to have heen 
paid : "I trust means may be found to prevent this 
resolution from taking place ; and that I do my coun- 
try no more than justice, when I suppose her ready 
to stretch out the hand to cherish and retain this na- 



tive poet, whose 'wood notes wild ' possess 30 much 
excellence. To repair the wrongs of suffering or ne- 
glected merit ; to call forth genius from the obscuri- 
ty in which it had pined indignant, and place it where 
it miffht profit or deli ff lit the world .-—these are exer- 
tions which give to wealth an enviable superiority, 
to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride." 

Although Burns deprecated the reflections which 
might be made on his occupation of exciseman, it 
may be necessary to add. that from this humble step, 
he foresaw all the contingencies and gradations of 
promotion up to a rank on which it is not usual to 
look with contempt. In a letter dated 1794, he 
states that he is on the list of supervisors; that in 
two or three years he should be at the head of that 
list, and be appointed, as a matter of course ; but 
that then a friend might be of service in getting him 
into a part of the kingdom which he would like. A 
supervisor's income varies from about 120/. to 200Z. 
a year : but the business is 'an incessant drudgery, 
and would be nearly a complete bar to every species 
of literary pursuit." He proceeds, however, to ob- 
serve, that the moment he is appointed supervisor 
he might be nominated on the Collector's list, "and 
this is always a business purely of political patron- 
age. A collectorship varies from much better than 
two hundred a year to near a thousand. Collectors 
also come forward by precedency on the list, and 
have, besides a handsome income, a life of complete 
leisure. A life of literary leisure with a decent com- 
petence, is the summit of my wishes." 

He was doomed, however, to continue in hia 
present employment for the remainder of his days, 
which were not many. His constitution was now 
rapidly decaying; yet, his resolutions of amendment 
were but feeble. His temper became irritable and 
gloomy, and he was even insensible to the kind for- 
giveness and soothing attentions of his affectionate 
wife. In the month of June, 1796, he removed to 
Brow, about ten miles from Dumfries, to try the ef- 
fect of sea-bathing; a remedy that at first, he imag- 
ined, relieved the rheumatic pains in his limbs, with 
which he had been afflicted for some months: but 
this was immediately followed by a new attack of 
fever. When brought back to his house at Dumfries, 
on the 18th of July, he was no longer able to stand 
upright. The fever increased, attended with deliri- 
um and debility, and on the 21st he expired, in the 
thirty-eighth year of of his age. 

He left a widow and four sons, for whom the in- 
habitants of Dumfries opened a subscription, which 
being extended to England, produced a considerable 
sum for their immediate necessities.* This has since 
been augmented by the profits of the edition of his 
works, printed in four volumes, Svo.; to which Dr 
Currie, of Liverpool, prefixed a life, written with 
much elegance and taste. 

As to the person of our poet, he is described as 
being nearly five feet ten inches in height, and of a 
form that indicated agiliiy as well as strength. His 
well raised forehead, shaded with black curling hair, 
expressed uncommon capacity. His eyes were large, 
dark, full of ardor and animation. His face vvas well- 
formed, and his countenance uncommonly interest- 
ing. His conversation is universally allowed to 
have been uncommonly fascinating, and rich in wit, 
humor, whim, and occasionally in serious and ap- 
posite reflection. This excellence, however, proved 
a lasting misfortune to him : for while it procured 
him the friendship of men of character and taste, in 
whose company his humor was guarded and chaste, 
it had also allurements for the lowest of mankind, 
who know no difference between freedom and li- 
centiousness, and are never so completely gratified 
as when genius condescends to give a kind of sanc- 
tion to their grossness. He died poor, but not in 
debt, and left behind him a name, the fame of which 
will not soon be eclipsed. 

* Mrs. Burns continues to live in the honse in which the poet dted: 
the eldest son, Robert, is at present in the Stamp office : the other two 
are officers in the East India Company's army ; William is in Bengal, 
and James iu Madras, (May, 1813,) Wallace, the second son, a lad of 
great promise, died of a consumptiou. 



PREFACE. 
TO THE FIRST EDITION 

OF 

BURNS' POEMS. 

PUBLISHED AT KILMARNOCK IN 1786. 



The following trifles are not the production of 
the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned 
art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- 
nesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, 
with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the au- 
thor of this, these and other celebrated names, 
their countrymen, are, at least in the original lan- 
guage, a fcnintain shut up, and a hook sealed. 
Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for 
commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments 
and manners he felt and saw in himself and in 
his rustic compeers around him, in his and their 
native language. Though a rhymer from his 
earliest years, at least from the earliest impulses 
of the softer passions, it was not till very lately 
that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friend- 
ship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him 
think anything of his worth showing; and none 
of the following works were composed with a 
view to the press. To amuse himself with the 
little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil 
and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the 
various feeUngs, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, 
the fears, in his own breast : to find some counter- 
poise to the struggles of a world, always an alien 
scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these 
were his motives for courting the Muses, and m 
these he found poetry to be liis own reward. 

Now that he appears in the public character 
of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. 
So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even 
he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at 
the thought of being branded as — An imperti- 
nent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the 
world ; and, because he can make a shift to jin- 
gle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, look- 



ing upon himself as a poet of no small conse- 
quence, forsooth ! 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, 
Shenstoue, whose divine elegies do honor to our 
language, our nation, and our species, that " Hu' 
mility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, 
but never raised one to fame !" If any critic 
catches at the word genius, the author tells him 
once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself 
as possessed of some poetical abilities, otherwise 
his publishing in the manner he has done, would 
be a maneuver below the worst character, which, 
he hopes, his worst enemies will ever give him. 
But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious 
drawings of the poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, 
with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that, 
even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the 
most distant pretensions. These two justly ad- 
mired Scotch poets he has often had in eye in the 
following pieces : but rather with a view to kin- 
dle at their flame than for servile imitation. 

To his Subscribers, the author returns his most 
sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over a 
counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the 
bard, conscious how much he owes to benevo- 
lence and friendship, for gratifying him, if he de- 
serves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic 
bosom — to be distinguished. He begs his readers, 
particularly the learned and polite, who will honor 
him with a perusal, that they will make every 
allowance for education and circumstances of 
life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial 
criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and 
nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that 
case do by others — let him be condemned, with- 
out mercy, to contempt and oblivion, 
vii 



ON 

THE DEATH OF BURNS 

BY MR. ROSCOE. 



Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But, ah! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ? 

As green thy towering pines may grow. 

As clear thy streams may speed along ; 
As bright thy summer suns may glow. 

And wake again thy feathery throng ; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around. 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung. 

And cold the hand that wak'd its sound. 

What tho^ thy vigorous offspring rise, 

In arts and arms thy sons excel ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes, 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell. 

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee ! 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 
For al4 thy joys to him were dear. 

And all his vows to thee were due : 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew. 

In opening youth's delightful prime, 
Than when thy favoring ear he drew 

To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught ; 
He heard with joy the tempests rise 

That wak'd him to sublimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought. 

Where wild flowers pour'd their rath perfume, 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

But. ah ! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy 'd ; 
His limbs inur'd to early toil. 

His days with early hardships tried : 



And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery. 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd. 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest. 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along. 
And soothed his lengthen'd hour of toil 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled. 

When vigorous health from labor springs. 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire. 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

Now spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance : 
Let flattery spread her viewless snare. 

And fame attract his vagrant glance : 
Let sprightly pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone. 
Till lost in love's delirious trance. 

He scorns the joys his youth has known. 

Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And mirth concentre all her rays. 

And point them from the sparkling bowl, 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasures unconfin'd. 
And confidence that spurns control. 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind. 

And lead his steps those bowers among. 

Where elegance with splendor vies, 
Or science bids her favor'd throng 

To more refin'd sensations rise ; 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys. 

And freed from each laborious strife 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish' d. life. 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS, 



Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let despair, with wizard light, 

Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
And pour incessant on his sight, 

Her spectred ills and shapes of wo : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed. 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 
In silent grief where droops her head, 

The partner of his early joys ; 
And let his infant's tender cries 

His fond parental succor claim, 
And bid him hear in agonies 

A husband and a father's name. 



'Tis done — the powerful charm succeeds ; 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath' d the soothing strain. 



DEDICATION 

OF THE 

SECOND EDITION OF THE 

POEMS FORMERLY PRINTED. 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CALEDONIAN HUNT. 



Mx Lords and Gentlemen, 

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and 
whose highest ambition is to sing in his Coun- 
try's service — where shall he so properly look 
for patronage as to the illustrious names of his 
native Land ; those who bear the honors and in- 
herit the virtues of their Ancestors 1 The Poetic 
Genius of my Country found me, as the proph- 
etic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plow; and 
threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade 
me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and 
rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native 
tongue: I tuned my wild, artless notes, as she 
inspired — She whispered me to come to this an- 
cient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs 
under your honored protection ; I now obey her j 
dictates. j 

I 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do 

not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in 
the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past 
favors ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted 
learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. 
Nor do I present this Address with the venal 
soul of a servile Author, looking for a continua- 
tion of those favors ; I was bred to the Plow, and 
am independent. I come to claim the common 
Scottish name with you, my illustrious Country- 
men : and to tell the world that I glory in tlie 



title. I come to congratulate my Country, that 
the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncon- 
taminated ; and that from your courage, knowl- 
edge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to 
proffer my warmest wishes to the Great Foun- 
tain of Honor, the Monarch of the Universe, for 
your welfare and happiness. 

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in 
the ancient and favorite amusement of your fore- 
fathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party; 
and may Social Joy await your return. When 
harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings 
of bad men and bad measures, may the honest 
consciousness of injured worth attend your re- 
turn to your native Seats ; and may Domestic 
Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at 
your gates! May corruption shrink at your 
kindling, indignant glance ; and may tyranny in 
the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, 
equally find you an inexorable foe ! 
I have the honor to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude 
And highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted and humble servant, 
ROBERT BURNS 
Edinburgh, April 4:, 1787. 



CONTENTS. 



Biographical Sketch of the Author, - iii 

On the Death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe, ix 

Preface to the First Edition of Burns' Poems, 

published at Kiimarnocit, vii 

Dedication of the Second Edition of the Poems 
formerly printed, To the Noblemen and Gen- 
tlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, xi 

POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 

The Twa Dogs, a Tale, 1 

Scotch Drink, 3 

The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the 
Scotch Representatives in the House of Com- 
mons, 4 

Postcript. ' 5 

The Holy Fair, 5 

Death and Dr. Hornbook, 7 

The Brigs of Ayr, a Poem inscribed to J. B , 

Esq. Avr, 9 

The Ordination,— 11 

The Calf To the Rev. Mr. , 12 

Address to the Deil, 12 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie,-- 13 

Poor Mailie's Elegy, 14 

To J. S****, 14 

A Dream, 16 

The Vision, 17 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly Right- 
eous, — 19 

Tam Samson's Elegy, 20 

The Epitaph," 21 

Halloween, 21 

The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning Saluta- 
tion to his Auld Mare Maggie, — 24 

To a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest with 

the plow, November, 1785, 25 

A Winter Night, — 25 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, 26 

The Lament, occasioned by the Unfortunate is- 
sue of a Friend's Amour, 27 

Despondency, an Ode, - 28 

Winter, a Dirge, 29 

The Cotter's Saturday Night. 29 

Man was made to Mourn, a Dirge, 30 

A prayer in the prospect of Death, 31 

Stanzas on the same occasion. 31 

Verses left by the Author, in the room where he 
slept, having lain at the House of a Reverend 

Friend, 32 

The First Psalm, 32 

A Prayer, under the pressure of violent Anguish, 32 

The first six verses of the Ninetieth Psalm, 32 

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one down with 

the Plow, in April, 1786, 32 

To Ruin, 33 

To Miss L , with Beattie's Poems as a New 

Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787, — 33 

Epistle to a young Friend, 33 

On a Scotch" Bard, gone to the West Indies, 34 

To a Haggis, — 35 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., 35 

To a liOuse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet 

at Church, — 36 

Address to Edinburgh, - 36 

37 
38 
39 
40 
40 



Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard, 

To the Same. 

To W. S*****n. Ochiltree, May, 1785, 

Postscript. -■ 

Epistle to J. R******, enclosing some Poems,--- 



PAOK. 

John Barleycorn, a Ballad, - 41 

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, in Nith- 

Side, 4B 

Ode, Sacred to the memory of Mrs. , of , 46 

Elegv on Capt. Matthew Henderson, 46 

The Epitaph, 47 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintra, 48 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn, - 49 

Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord of White- 

foord, Bart., with the foregoing Poem, 49 

Tam O'Shanter, a Tale, 49 

On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a 

fellow had just shot at, — 51 

Address to the Shade of Thompson, on crown- 
ing his bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with 

Bays, 

Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder, — 

On a Noisy Polemic, - - 

On Wee Johnie, 

For the Author's Father, 

For R. A., Esq., 

For G. H., Esq., 

A Bard's Epitaph, - - 

On the late Captain Grose's Peregrinations 
through Scotland, collecting the Antiquities 

of that Kingdom, 

To Miss Cruikshanks, a very young Lady. 
Written on the blank leaf of a Book, presented 

to her by the Author, --- 53 

On reading, in a Newspaper, the Death of John 
M'Leod. Esq., Brother to a young Lady, a par- 
ticular Friend of the Authors, — -- 53 

The Humble petition of Biuar Water to the No- 
ble Duke of Athole, - - 53 

On scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch-Turit. — 54 
Written with a Pencil over the Chimney-piece, 
in the Parlor of the Inn at Kenmore, Tay- 

mouth, — 

Written with a Pencil, standing by the Fall of 

Fyers, near Loch-Ness,- 55 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, Born in 
peculiar circumstances of Family Distress, — 55 

The Whistle, a Ballad, 55 

Second Epistle to Davie, — 57 

Lines on an Interview with Lord Daer, — 58 



53 



54 



On the Death of a Lap-Dog, named Echo, 

Inscription to the Memory of Fergusson, 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq., 

Fragment, inscribed to the Right Hon. C.J. Fox, 

To Dr. Blacklock, 

Prologue, spoken at the Theatre Ellisland, on 

New-Year's Day Evening. -- 

Elegy on tlie lati* Miss Burnet, of Monboddo,--- 

The Rights of Woman, 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her Ben- 
efit Nigiit, Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dum- 
fries,—-- - 

Verses to a young Lady, with a present of 

Songs, - - 

Lines written on a blank leaf of a copy of his 

poems presented to a young Lady, --- - 

Copy of a Poetical Address to Mr. Wm. Tytler, 

Caledonia, — 

Poem written to a Gentleman who had sent him 
a Newspaper, and oflTered to continue it free 

of expense. 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry, 

Sketch— New Year's Day, 

Extempore, on the Late Mr. William Smellie, -- 

xiii 



59 



78 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Indepen- 
dence, — - - - — 91 

Sonnet, on tlie Death of Robert Riddel. Esq.,-- 91 

Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice, 91 

The Epitaph, 91 

Answer to a mandate sent by the Surveyor of 

the Windows, Carriages. &.C., -- 92 

Impromptu, on iMrs. 's Birth-day, 92 

To a young Lady, Miss Jes.sy -- — , Dumfries; 

with Books which the Bard prtsented her, --- 93 
Sonnet, written on the 25th of January, 1793, the 
B rth-day of the Author, on hearing a Thrush 

sing in a morning walk. 93 

Extempore, to Mr. S**e, on refusing to dine with 

him, 93 

To Mr. S**e, with a pre.-ent of a do/en of porter, 93 
Poem, addressed to Mr. M tchell, collector of Ex- 
cise, Dumfries, 1796, - 93 

Sent to a Genileman whom he had offended. --- 94 
Poem on Life, addressed to Col. De Peyster, 

Dumfries, - 94 

Address to the Tooth-ache, 94 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, on receiv- 
ing a favor, - — 95 

Epitaph on a Friend, - 95 

A Grace before Dinner — 96 

On Sensibility. Addressed to Mrs. Dunlop, of 

Dunlop. -- 96 

A Verse. When Death's dark stream I ferry 

o'er, - 96 

Verses written at Selkirk. --- 97 

Liberty, a Fragment. - 98 

Elegy on the death of Robert Ruisseaux, 98 

The loyal Natives' Ver.>es, -- 98 

Burns — Extempore, - 93 

To J. Lapraik, 98 

To the Rev. John M'Math, enclosing a copy of 

Holy Willies Prayer, which he had requested, 99 
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, recom- 
mending a Boy, 100 

To Mr. M'Adam. of Craigen-Gillan. --- 100 

To Capt. Riddel, Glenriddel, - --- 100 

To Terraughty, on his Birth day, 100 

To a Lady, vvitli a present of a pair of drinking- 



glasses 
The Vowels, a Tale,- 
Sketch. - 



Scots Prologue, for ^Ir. Sutherland's Benefit, -- 101 
Extemporaneous Effusion on being appointed to 

the Excise, - - 102 

On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord G., 102 

On the same,-- - — 102 

On the same.- - 102 

To the same, on the Author being threatened 

with his resentment, 102 

The Dean of Faculty, - 102 

Extempore in the Court of Session, 102 

Verses to J. Ranken, — 103 

On hearing that there was falsehood in the Rev. 

Dr. B 's verv looks, 103 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish. Fifeshire,-- 103 

Elegy on the Year 17^-', a Sketch, 103 

Verses written under the Portrait of Fergusson, 

the Poet. - 103 

The Guidwife of Wauchope-house to Robert 

Burns, 112 

The Answer, 112 

The Kirk's Alarm, a Satire, - 116 

The Twa Herds, 117 

Epistle from a Tailor to Robert Burns, 118 

The Answer, 119 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock, on the pub- 
lication of his Essays, - — 119 

Letter to J— s T 1 Gl nc r, 119 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, 120 

The Jolly Beggars, a Cantata 121 

Glossary — 140 



SONGS. 
A. 
Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu !- 
Adown winding Nith 1 did wander, 
Ae fond kiss and then we sever, — 



PAGE. 

.... 44 
.— 122 
.... Ill 
-- 110 

■— 84 



Again rejoicing nature sees, 

A Highland lad my love was born, 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 

Amang the trees where humming bees. 

An O, for ane and twenty, Tam ! 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December I- 86 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire -- — 53 

A rose-bud by my early walk, — — — 81 

As I cam in by our gate-end, --- -- 113 

As I stood by yon roofless tower,- - - 88 

As 1 was a-wandering ae morning in spring,--- 111 
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms 39 



Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 43 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive. 70 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 105 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 80 

Blithe hae 1 been on yon hill, 67 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, - 79 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, — 84 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 73 

By Allan stream 1 chanced to rove, 69 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 62 



Ca' the yowes to the knovves, 72 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 1 75 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul. - 81 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 69 

Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 98 

Contented vvi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 75 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 114 



D. 



Deluded swain, the pleasure, 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat 1 ■ 
Duncan Gray came here to woo, 



... 71 
--- 93 
... 64 



Fair the fare of orient day, 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 

ye skies, — -- 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows, 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

First when Maggie was my care, 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 

From the, Eliza, I must go, -— 



114 



Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

Green grows the rashes. O! 



104 
44 



H. 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 68 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 66 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend, 108 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, — 79 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 111 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. 71 

Her flowing locks, tlie raven's wing, 111 

How can my poor heart be glad, 72 

How cruel are the parents, --- 77 

How long and dreary is the night, 73 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 

Devon — 58 

Husband, husband, cease your strife; - 71 

I. 

I am a bard of no regard, 123 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 122 

I am a son of Mars, -- - 121 

I do confess thou art so fair. 105 

I dream'd 1 lay where flowers were springing,- 104 

I gaed a waefn' gate yestreen,-- - 83 

I hae a wife o' my ain, 59 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town — 107 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet, — 103 

In simmer when the hay was niawn, 84 

I once was a maid tho' "l cannot tell when, 121 

Is there for honest poverty, — 75 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young 

belles,- ~ 114 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 71 

It was upon a Lammas night, — - 42 

It was the charming month of May,-- — -— 74 

J. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 95 

John Anderson my jo, John, — -..- 83 

K. 
Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose 1 95 

L. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 74 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 73 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 122 

Let not woman e'er complain 73 

Long, long the night, — — 76 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 80 

Louis, what reck I by thee, - 87 

M. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 77 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 80 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 123 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 73 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick bor- 
der, O, -— 106 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 83 

My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here, 105 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 87 

My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, 113 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 95 

N. 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 92 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 45 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green 107 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays,- 75 

Now nature hangs her mantle green, 47 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 69 

Now spring has cloth'd the groves in green, 77 

Now weslin winds and slaughtering guns, 43 

O. 

O ay my wife she dang me, - 114 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier, 78 

O cam ye here the fight to shun, 90 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 82 

O gin my love were yon red rose, 68 

O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, 114 

O how can I be blithe and glad, 107 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show, 66 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 92 

O ken ye wha Meg o' the iNlill has gotten 67 

O lassie, art thou sleepin yet 1 - — 76 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 114 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, 84 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, - 67 

O lovely Polly Stewart, 113 

O luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be 

seen, -- 85 

O Mary, at thy window be, -- — 65 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sa sweet, 87 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 83 

O mirk, mirk is the midnight hour, 65 

O my luve's like a red, red rose. - 88 

On a bank of flowers, one summer's day, 115 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 108 

One night as I did wander, 110 

O, once 1 lov'd a bonnie lass, 59 

O Philly, happy be the day, 74 

O poortith cauld, and restless love, -- 65 

O raging fortune's withering blast, ill 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley- 64 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 73 

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 76 

O tell na me o' wind and rain, 76 

O, this is no my ain lassie, 77 

O Tibbie, 1 hae seen the day, - 81 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 88 

O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! F2 

O wha is she that lo'es me, 94 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy? — 105 



PAGE. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 69 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 82 

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar,--- 113 
O why the deuce should I repine, 124 

P. 
Powers celestial, whose protection, 109 

R. 

Raving winds around her blowing, 80 

Robin shure in hairsl, — — 113 

S. 
Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 72 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 96 

Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, -- 70 

See the smoking bowl before us, -- - 124 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 86 

She is a winsome wee thing.-- 64 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 70 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 122 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature,-- 73 
Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, — ~— - 115 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me 1 80 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 58 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 75 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee, — 107 

T. 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, 114 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 82 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 81 

The deil cam fiddling thro' the town, — 109 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 44 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were 

mawn, 109 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, - 82 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, - - 87 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning. " 69 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 87 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 83 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at 

last, - Ill 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 

reckon. - 76 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 64 
There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity, 104 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 65 

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie 

lass, - 113 

There was a lad was born at Kyle, 110 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 68 

There were five carlins in the South, 115 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling, 80 

Thine am I. my faithful fair, 71 

Tho' cruel fate sliould bid us part, — - 107 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, — - 70 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 58 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 111 

True hearted was he, the sad swain of Yarrow, 66 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, -- 85 

'Twas even, the dewy fields were green, 57 

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin, 77 

U. 
Up in the morning's no for me, 104 

W. 

Wae is my heart and the tear's in my e'e, 109 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet, 114 

Wha is this at my bower door 1 106 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 

lassie, - 84 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 111 

When Guilford good our pilot stood, 42 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 63 

When January winds were blawing cauld, 116 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 66 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, -- 70 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 81 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 87 

While larks, with little wing, — 68 

Why, why tell thy lover, 79 

Will ve go to the Indies, my Mary,-- 63 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 86 

Wilt thou be my dearie 1 66 



CONTENTS 



PAGE. 

Ye banks and braes, and streams, around, 64 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 85 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, •- 85 

Ye gallants bright I red you right, — "~— 104 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, — 109 



PAGE. 

Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 113 

Yon wild mossy mountains, 105 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad, 108 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 110 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier, 103 



CONTENTS 



THE ADDITIONAL POEMS 



PAGK. 

Holy Willie's Prayer, 127 

The Farewell, - 127 

Willie Chalmers, — 123 

Lines written on a Bank-Note, ---- 128 

A Bard's Epitaph, - 128 

Epistle to Major Log:an, — • 129 

On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq., 129 

Epistle to Hugh Parker, - - 130 

To John M'Murdo, Esq., 130 

Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., 130 

Address of Beelzebub to the President of the 

Highland Society, — 131 

To John Taylor, 131 

On seeing aiiss Fontenelle in a favorite charac- 
ter. " 132 

The Book-Worms, 132 

The Reproof, 132 

The Reply, — 132 

The Kirk of Lamington, 132 

The League and Covenant, 132 

Inscription on a Goblet, -— — 132 

The Toad-Eater, 132 

The Selkirk Grace, — 132 

On the Poet's Daughter, 132 

The Sons of Old Killie, 132 

On a Suicide, 132 

The Joyful Widower, 133 

There was a Lass, — 133 



PAGE. 

Theniel Menzie's Bonnie Mary, - 133 

Frae the Friends and Land I love, 133 

Weary Fa' You, Duncan Gray, 133 

The Blude Red Rose at Yule may blaw, - 134 

The Ploughman, 134 

Rattlin', Roarin' Willie, - 134 

As I was a-wandering, 135 

My Harry was a Gallant Gay, 135 

Simmer's a Pleasant Time, 135 

When Rosy May, 135 

Lady Mary Ann, 135 

My Love, she's but a Lassie yet, 136 

Sensibility how Charming, 136 

Out over the Forth, ~ 136 

The Tither Morn, ~ - 136 

The Cardin' o't, 137 

The Wearv Pund o' Tow, — 137 

Sae Far Awa, - 137 

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation, 137 

Here's His Health in Water! 137 

The Lass of Ecclefechan, — — 138 

The Highland Laddie, 138 

Here's to thy Health, my Bonnie Lass, 138 

Address to a Young Lady, - 138 

Song, - — 138 

O Lay thy Loof in Mine, Lass, 133 

To Chloris, — >- 139 

Peg-a Ramsey, — - 139 



POEMS, 

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH 



THE TWA DOGS. 



'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I '11 name, they ca'd him CcBsar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure: 
His hair, his size, his month, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; 
But whalpit some place far abroad. 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride, na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stane an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke. 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swurl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snufTd and snowkit, 
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, 
An' worry'd ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' daffin weary grown. 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the. creation. 



Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. 



CJESA-R. 

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents ; 
He rises when he likes himsel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and siclike trashtrie. 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner. 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh ; 
A cottar howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like, 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans. 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 
Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer. 
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger; 
But how it comes, 1 never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies. 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye're ncgleckit, 
How huft^d, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit ! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditcners, an' sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k. 
As J wad by a stinking brock. . 



BURNS' POEMS 



I 've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash: 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; 
While they maun staun', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble. 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink: 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride. 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mend the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxations comin, 
An' ferlie at the folk in LoiCon. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns. 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station. 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty wmds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richt guid will: 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young anes rantin thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock, 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favor wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins thrang a-parliamentin. 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin — 

CJESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
For Britniii's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it ; 
Say raiher, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him. 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gami)ling, masquerading; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft, 
To Ha (rue or Calais takes a waft, 
To make a tour, an' take a whirl. 
To learn 6074 ton, an' see the warl'. 



There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 
To thrurn guitars, and fecht wi' nov^t ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles; 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter. 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 



Hech man ! dear Sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass' d 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' kintra sports. 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet 0' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin o' their timmer. 
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Coesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them. 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 

CMSAR. 

L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am. 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. 
An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes: 
But human bodies are sic fools. 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them. 
They make enow themselves to vex them ; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A kintra lassie at her wheel. 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; 
Their days, insipid, dull an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; 
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races. 
Their galloping thro' public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art. 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart, 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight. 
An' darker gloaming brought the night! 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na me7i, but dogs; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gie him strong drink, until he wink. 

That's sinking in despair ; 
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid. 

That's press'd wi' grief an' care ; 
There let hitn bouse, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forjrets his loves or debts. 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7. 

Let other poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink, 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink. 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky Wheat the laughs adorn, 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn. 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn. 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, Johyi Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wale o' food. 
Or tumblin in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood. 
There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receiven, 
W^hen heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin, 

But oii'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, screvin, 

Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' droopin Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labor sair, 

At's weary toil, 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need. 

The poor man's wine; 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 



Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'n godly meeting o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry ni^ht we get the corn in, 
sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin on a New-year morning 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in. 

An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gives his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz an freath 

r th' luggit caup ! 
Then Burnewin^ comes on like death 
At every chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamor. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season. 

E'er spier her price, 

Wae worth that brandy burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash, 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days. 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless deevils like mysel ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to niell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch t)y inch. 
Who twists his grunt le wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain. 
Out owre a glass o' vhisky punch 

Wi' honest men. 

Whisky ; saul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses! 
Thou comes — they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither' s a — s ! 

♦ Bvrnetcin — burn-the-wind — the Blacksmith— an 
appropriate title. E. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Thee, FerintosJi! O sadly lost! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast 

May kill us a'; 
For royal Forbes' charter' d boast 

Is ta'en awa! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' the Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky St ells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
And bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if thoull but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone and Whisky gill, 
An' rowth o' ryme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR S 
EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 

IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

Dearest of Distillation ! last and best — ^ 
How art thou lost 1— Parody on Milton. 

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 
Your honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 
To see her sittin on her a — 

Low i' the dust. 
An' scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction. 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction. 

On Aquavitce; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction. 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
The honest, open, naked truth : 
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble I 
The muckle deevil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em : 
If honestly they canna come. 

Far better want 'em. 

In gath'ring votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 

* This was written before the act anent the Scotch 
Distilleries, of session 17S6; for which Scotland and 
the Author return their most grateful thanks. 



Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 
An' hum an' haw ; 

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 
Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle 
Her mutchkin stoop as toom's a whissle : 
An' d — mn'd Excisemen in a bussle. 

Seizin a Stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel. 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Smuggler right behint her, 
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot. 
To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder 'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire clean out o' sight ; 
But could I like MontgorrCries fight, 

Or gab like Boswell; 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight 

An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honors, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat. 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period, an' pause. 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot, I'se warran ; 
The aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;* 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham,f 
An' ane, a chap that's d — m'nd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederic an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An' monie ithers 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith • I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll see't, or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost Militia fired her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

* Sir Adam Ferguson. E. 

t The present Duke of Montrose. (1800) 



B URNS' POEMS. 



An' L — d, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets. 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

r th' first she meets I 

For G — d sake. Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive wi' a' your Wit and Lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks : 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ; 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks. 
An' drink his health in auld Na7ise TinnocTt's* 

Nine times a- week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnock's, 
Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their tbul reproach 
Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 
The Coalitio?i. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a Minister grow dorty. 

An' kick your place, 
Ye' 11 snap your fingers, poor an' hearty. 
Before his face. 

God bless your Honors a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise. 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, 

That haunt Si. Jamie' s^ 
Your humble Poet sings an' prays 

While Rah his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies. 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But biythe and frisky, 
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, 

Tak aft' their Whisky. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ; 
When wretches range, in famishd swarms. 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonor arms 

In hungry droves. 

• A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, 
where he sometimes studied Politics over a glass of 
guid auld Scotch Drink. 



Their gun's a burden on their shouther. 
They downa bide the stink o' powther; 
Their bauldest thought's a hunk' ring swither 

To Stan' or rin. 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aflf, a' throwther. 
To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Higland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe. 
He has nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings teas him; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him : 
An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him 
In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek. 

In clime and season; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 
I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather. 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whisltygang thegither ! 

Tak aff your dram. 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 

A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd. 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 

I. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff" the caller air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ; 
The hares were hirplin down the furs. 

The lav'rocks they were chantin 

Fu' sweet that day. 

II. 

As Hghtsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three Hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black. 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fasnion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

III. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin. 
In feature, form, an' claes ! 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of 6cot> 
land for a Sacramental occasion. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The tJdrd cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

IV. 

Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, 

An' taks me by the hands, 
"Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

V. 

" My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Suverstitioji here. 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to********* Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day." 

VI. 

Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't: 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on. 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine rernarkin !" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a wearie body. 

In droves that day. 

VII. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, 

Gaed hodden by their cotters; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid- 
claith, 

Are springin o'er the gutters. 
The lassies, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls bak'd wi' butter 

Fu' crump that day. 

VIII. 
When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they're gathrin, 
Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools. 

An' some are busy blethrin 

Right loud that day. 

IX. 
Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our kintra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a row of tittlin jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck 



An' there a batch of wabster lads. 

Blackguarding frae K ck 

For fun this day. 



Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

XI. 

happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unken'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er. 

Is silent expectation ; 
For ****** speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t — n. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G — present him, 
The vera sight o' *****'§ face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

XIII. 
Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' ratlin an' wi' thumpin ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 

He's stampin an' he's junipin ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd up snout. 

His eldritch squeel and gestures. 
Oh how they fire the heart devout. 

Like cantharidian plasters. 

On sic a day ! 

XIV. 
But, hark ! the te7it has chang'd its voice , 

There's peace an' rest nae langer: 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit ior anger. 
***** opens out his cauld harangues. 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A Hft that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason? 
His English style, an' gesture fine. 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define. 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

XVI. 

In guid time comes an antidote 
Against sic poisoii'd nostrum ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



For ****** *, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G — , 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it. 
While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, iast, that day. 

XVII. 

We ***** *^ niest, the Guard relieves. 

An' Orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weei beheves. 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a Manse, 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

XVIII. 

Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup Commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 

An' there the pint stowp clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' Logic an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

XIX. 
Leeze me on Drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either School or College: 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair. 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep» 

Or ony stronger potion. 
It never fails on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an' lasses blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations. 

To meet some day, 

XXI. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts. 

Till a' the hills are rairin. 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 



Black 



IS na sparm : 



His piercing words, like Highland swords. 
Divide the joints an' marrow ; 

His talk o' H-U, where devils dwell. 
Our very sauls does harrow t 

Wi' fright that day. 

XXIL 
A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane, 
Whase ragin flame, an' scorchin heat. 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear. 

An' think they hear it roarin, 

* A street so called, which faces the tent in — . 
t Shakspeare's Hamlet. 



When presently it docs appear, 
'Twas but some ncebor snorin 

Asleep that day. 

xxni. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell 

How monie stories past. 
An' how they crowded to the yill 

When they were a' dismist ; 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms an' benclies ; 
An' cheese an' bread frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' dawds that day. 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaucie gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld Guidmen about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

XXV. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace. 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel, 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be afironted 

On sic a day ! 

XXVI. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slags the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon: 
Wi' faith an' hope an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune. 

For crack that day. 

XXVII. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane. 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' monie jobs that day begin, 

May end in Houghmagandie 

Some other day. 



DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end. 
And some great lies were never penn'd, 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell 
Which lately on a night befel, 



8 



BURNS' POEMS 



Is just as true's the Deil's in h-U 

Or Dublin city: 

That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fau, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'd na tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And toddlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

T took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' sithe, out-owre ae showther, 

Clear-dangling, hang; 
A three-tae'd leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava ! 

And then, its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

" Guid-een," quo' I ; " Friend ! hae ye been 

mawm, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ?"* 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan'. 

But naethins: spak; 
At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, 

Will ye go back?" 

It spak right howe, — " My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd."-— Quoth I, " Guid faith. 
Ye' re may be come to siap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie: 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith. 

See, there's a gully !" 

" Guidman," quo he, " put up your whittle, 
I'm no designed to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-ower my beard." 

"Weel, weel !" says I, " a bargain be't ; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come, gies your news ; 
This while t ye hae been monie a gate 

At monie a house." 

"Ay, ay !" quo' he. an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread. 

An' choke the breath ; 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 

♦This rencounter happ med in seed-time, 1785. 
f An epidemical fever was then raging in that 
country. 



" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 

Sin' I was to the hutching bred. 

An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid. 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till one' Hornbook's* ta'en up the trade. 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook V the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan • 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchanf 

An' ither chaps, 
That weans haud out their fingers laughin, 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art. 

And cursed skill. 
Has made them baith not worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane, 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 

But deil-ma-care. 
It just play'd dirl up the bane, 

But did nae mair. 

^^Hornbook was by, wi' ready art. 
And had sae fortify'd the part. 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

" I drew my sithe in sic a fury, 
I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae try'd a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

" Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it 

At once he tells't. 

"And then a' doctors' saws and whittles. 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles. 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease. 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fortis, what you please. 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus Spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se ; 
Sal-alkaU o' Midge-tail-clippings, 

And monie mae." 

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole now," 
Quo' I, "if that the news be true ! 

* This e:entleman, Dr. Horvbook, is, professionally, 
a brother of the Sovereii^n Order of the Ferula ; but, 
by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, 
Sur?eon,and Physician. 

I Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 

t The grave-di?ger. 



BURNS' POEMS, 



9 



His braw calf- ward whare gowans grew, 
Sae white and bonnie, 

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin Johnnie/''^ 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be tilTd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

" Whare I kill'd ane a fair sfrae-death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith. 

That Hornhook''s skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' will. 

"An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce wee bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 
**A kintra Laird hadta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets. 

Was laird himsel. 

**A bonnie lass, ye kend her name. 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame, 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hor7ibook"s care ; 
Horn sent her afFto her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 
" That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt. 

" But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Scot, 

As dead's a herrin : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat. 

He gets his fairin !' 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel. 

And sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR, 

A POEM. 
Inscribed to J. B*********, Esq. AVB. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough. 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough. 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thnish, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush ; 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 
Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er 

the hill ; 



Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy Independence bravely bred. 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd. 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field, 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile mercenary Swiss of rhymes? 
Or labor hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard. 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 
When J3********* befriends his humble name, 
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame. 
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap. 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils. 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek' 
The thundering guns are heard on every side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie. 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs , 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings. 
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee. 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree: 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days. 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide 

blaze. 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the 

rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward ; 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi'care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpfto?i's* wheel'd the left about : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high. 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) 
The drowsy Dungeon-clocki had number'd two, 
And Wallace Toxverf had sworn the fact was true. 
The tide-swol'n Firth with sullen sounding roar, 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream! 
When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as the GosX drives on the wheeling hare; 
Ane on th' Atdd Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the risinf! piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry 'd 

* A noted tavern at the Auld Bri"; end. 

■f The two steeples. | The gos-hawk, or falcon. 



10 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr, preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual fo'k; 
Fays, spunkies, Kelpies, a\ they can explain 

them, 
And ev'n the very deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appeared of ancient Pictishrace, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face ; 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstPd lang;, 
Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat. 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guideen : — 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, frien', yell think ye're nae sheep 
shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank, 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day, I doubt ye'U never see. 
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense. 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

meet. 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime. 
Compare wi' bonnie Briga o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat- 
stream* 
Tho' they should cast the very sark an' swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puflTd up wi' windy pride! 
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
But twa-three winters will inform you better, 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; 
When from the hills where springs the brawl- 
ing Coil, 
Or stately Lugar''s mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 

course, 
Or haunted Garpalf draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes-. 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck.X down to the Rottonkey,% 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea ; 

* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

t The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few 
places in the West of Scotland, where those fanry- 
Bcarini? beinjrs, known by the name of Qhaists, still 
Gontinue pertinaciously to inhabit. 

X The source of the river Ayr. 

^ A small landing-place ibove the large key. 



Then down ye'U hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 

skies: 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say 
o't! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate 

o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-allurmg edifices. 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices; 
O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves: 
Windows and doors, in nameless scuplture 

drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste, unblest; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream,— 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim; 
Forms might be worship' d on the bended knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their Ukeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race. 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- 
rection I 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 
ings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-clean- 
ers; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly 

Writers: 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation. 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory. 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story I 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce. 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country — 
Men, three-parts made by I'ailors and by Bar- 
bers, 
Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d — d new 
Brigs and Harbors I 

NEW BRIG. 

Now baud you there ! for faith ye've said 
enough. 
And niuckle mair than ye can mak to through. 
As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But under favor o' your langer beard, 



BURNS' POEMS 



11 



Abuse o' Magistrates might wee. be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth "a Citizen,'^ a term o' scandal: 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin owre hdps an' rai- 
sins, 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
And would to Common-sense, for once betray'd 

them. 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to ?hed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the watry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'' Lauchlan,* thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. 
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with 

Highland rage. 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler tir'd. 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd I 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd. 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part. 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd m years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd — 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty, hand in hand with 

Spring; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came rural 

Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye: 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. 
Led yellow Autumn wreaih'd with nodding 

corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary 

show. 
By hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next tollow'd Courage with his martial stride. 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode. 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 

kindling wrath. 

♦ A well known performer of Scottish music on 
the violin. 



THE ORDINATION. 

For sense they little owe to Frugal Heaven — 
To please the Mob they hide the little given. 

I. 

Kilmarnock Wabsters fidge an' claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw. 

Of a' denominations. 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations; 
Then afi'to B-gb—'s in a raw. 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

II. 

Curst Common Sense, that imp o' h-11, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;* 
But O ****** * aft made her yell, 

An' R * * * * * sair misca'd her ; 
This day M' ****** * takes the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her! 
He'll clap a shangari on her tail. 

An' set the bairns to daub her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

in. 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor 
O' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r. 

An' gloriously shall whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

An, touch it afTwi' vigor, 
How graceless Hamf leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a nigger ; 
Or Phijiehast drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigor ; 
Or Zi-p-porah,^ the scauldin jade. 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

r th' inn that day. 

V. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution, 
That Stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An gie him o'er the flock, to feed. 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin. 

Spare them nae day. 

VI. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. 

And toss thy horns fu' canty; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty; 
For laptu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' ru7its o' grace the pick an' wale 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 
But ilka day. 

* Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on 
the admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. 
L. to the Laiuh Kirk. 

+ Gen. ix. 22. J Num. ixv. 8. $ Exod. iv. 25. 



12 



BURNS' POEMS 



VII. 

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zio7i ; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, 

And o'er the thairms be tryin; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks weep, 

An' a' hke lamb-tails flyin 

Fu' fast this day! 

VIII. 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, 
As lately F-nva-ck sair forfairn. 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin ; 
And like a godly elect bairn. 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

And sound this day. 

IX. 

Now R******* harangue nae mair. 

But steek your gab forever: 
Or try the wicked town of A * * , 

For there they'll think you clever; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a Shaver; 
Or to the N-th-rt-n repair, 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

AfT-hand this day. 



M * * * * * and you were just a match. 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin baudrons ; 
And ay' he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons ; 
But now his honor maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 
Fast, fast this day. 

XI. 

See, auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein thro' the city: 
Hark, how the nine tail'd cat she plays — 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says. 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her 'plaint this day. 

XII. 

But there's Mortality himsel. 

Embracing all opinions; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell. 

Between his twa companions; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin onions I 
Now there — they're packed aff' to hell. 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

XIIL 

O happy day I rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
]yj, ****** *^ R ***** are the boys. 

That Heresy can torture ; 



They'll gie her on a rape and hoyse. 
And cow her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

XIV. 
Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every New Light* mother's son. 

From this time forth, Confusion ; 
If mair they deave us with their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE OALF. 
To THE Rev. Mr. — 



On his text— Malachi, ch. iv., ver. 2: "And they 
shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall." 

Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

And should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na. Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot. 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Slot ! 

Tho', when some kind connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the notvte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead. 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bullock .'" 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Powers, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to w&i,— Milton, 

O THOU ! whatever title suit ther, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 

To scaud poor wretches. 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 

* JVcw Lisht is a cant phrase in the West of Scot- 
land, for those religious opinions which Dr. Tayloi, 
of Norwich, has defended so strenuously. 



BURNS' POEMS 



13 



I'm sure sma pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeal ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
An' the' yon lowing heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith ! thou's heither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 
Whyles, raging like a roarin lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin, 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her prayers, douse, honest woman, 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, 
Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. 
When wi' an eldritch, stour, quaick — quaick- 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags 
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk yards renev*' their leagues, 

Owrehowkit dead. 

Thence kintra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
For, oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hmvkie's gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit. 
Is instant made no worse a louse. 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord. 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord. 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord. 

By your direction, 
An' nighted Trav'lers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 
An' aft your moss-traversing Spunhies 
Decoy the wight (hat late an' drunk is : 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 
Delude his eyes, 



Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Masons'' mystic word an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

AfT straught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden^s bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd. 

The raptur'd hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, 
In shady bow'r : 

Then you. ye auld, snic-drawing dog ! 
Ye came to Paradise incog, 
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz. 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 

'Mang better fo'k, 
An' sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall. 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' low'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce. 
Sin' that day Michael^ did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin. 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin, 

To your black pit; 
But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae o. stake— 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake! 



THE 

DEATH AND DYING WORDS 

OF 

POOR MAILIE; 

THE author's only PET YOWE. 
AN UNCO MOUBNFU' TALE. 

As MaiJie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether. 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch. 



*VideMilton, Book VI. 



14 



BURNS' POEMS. 



There, groaning, dying, she did He, 
When Hughoc* he cam doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin een, an' Hfted han's, 
Poor Hughoc hke a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length Poor Muilie silence brak. 

" O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woetu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep, 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 

" Tell him, he was a master kin', 
An' ay was guid to me and mine ; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" O, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel : 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
W' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

" An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears. 
For monie a year come ihro' the shears : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care I 
An', if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ' 
An' warn him, what I winna name. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

" An, niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop; 
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your Mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
An' clos'd her e'en amang the dead. 

♦A neebor herd-callan. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close. 

Past a' remead; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes; 

Poor Mailie's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear. 
That could sae bitter draw the tear. 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed ; 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear. 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 
She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him. 
Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence. 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie^s dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe. 
Her living image in her yowe, 
Comes bleating to him. owre the knowe. 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips; 
For her forbears were brought in ship 

Frae yont the Tweed 
A bonnier ^eesA ne'er cross' d the cUps 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ' 
It maks guid fellows grin an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape. 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Poo7i ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Rohin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie dead. 



TO J. S*** 



Friendship! mysterious cement of tb» soul ! 

Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 

I owe thee much. Blair. 



Dear S****, the sleest paukie thief. 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts: 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



15 



For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pairo' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en Tm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends lor scriinpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her Jirst plan. 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature. 

She's wrote the Man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wr hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 

Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash. 
Some rhyme to court the kintra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash; 

I rhyme for fun. 
The star that rules my luckless lot, 
Has fated me the russet coat, 
An' damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit, 
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 

O' kintra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent. 

Something cries, " Hoolie 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye' 11 shaw your folly. 

" There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen m Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters. 

The unknown pages." 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 
Are whistling thrang. 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 
My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed. 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread. 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with the inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone. 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living sound and hale. 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale, 
Let's tak the tide. 
This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted, fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That wielded right, 
Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand, 
Dance by fu' light. 
The magic- wand then let us wield ; 
For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, 



See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

VVi' wrinkl'd face, 

Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, 
Wi' creepin pace. 

When ance lifers day draws near the gloamin, 
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foaniin. 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel, dear, deluding wonuai, 

The joy of joys ! 
O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near. 

Among the leaves; 
And though the puny wound appear. 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot. 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat. 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race. 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin; 
To right or left, eternal swervin. 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst with age, obscure an' slarvin. 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce with peevish, poor complaining! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang I 
Beneath what light she has remaining. 
Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 
And kneel, "Ye Powers I" and warm implore, 
" Tho' I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her dimes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more. 

Ay rowth o' rhymes. 
" Gie dreeping roasts to kinira lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claesto fine life-guards. 

And maids of honor. 
And yill an' whisky gie to cairds. 

Until they sconner. 

" A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Fit f ; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, percent.; 
But gie me real, sterling wit. 

And I'm content. 

" While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 



16 



BURNS' POEMS. 



As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may: 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care and prose, 
I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Yourhves, a dyke! 

Hae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But, gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise , 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 
The rattlin squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road 

Whilst I — but I shall haud me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with 

reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureates Ode, 
with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author 
was no sooner dropped asleep, than he imagined 
himself to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming 
fancy made the following ./Address.] 

I. 

GuiD-MORNiNG to your Majesty ! 

May heav'n augment your blisses, 
On every new hirth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is. 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 

II. 

I see ye're complimented thrang. 

By monie a lord and lady ; 
*' God save the king !" 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said ay ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring steady. 

On sic a day. 



For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place. 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

And aibhns ane been better 

Than you this day. 

IV 

'Tis very true my sov' reign king. 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding. 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string. 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 
V. 
Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

VI. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaster 
Your sair taxation does her fleece. 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

VII. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' WilVs a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges.) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

vni. 

Adieu, my Liege .' may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corrupiion's neck. 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect. 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

IX. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simp-le poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 



BURNS' POEMS 



17 



In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 
Forever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

X. 

For you, young potentate o' W , 

I tell your Higfmess fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

Fm tauld ye're driving rarely: 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er you brak. Diana's pales, 

Or, rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

XI. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To make a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne. 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him* at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver : 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,'f 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

XII. 

For you, right rev'rend O , 

Nane sets the lawn- sleeve sweeter, 
Although a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug. 

Or, trouth ! ye'U stain the mitre 
Some luckless day. 

XIIL 
Young, royal Tarry B reeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A g]onons palley,X stem an' stern. 

Well rigg'd for Fe«?/s' barter; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymenial charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn. 

An', large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty ; 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British hoys awa', 

For kings are unco scant ay ; 
An' German gentles are but sma'' , 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 

XV. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coagie fou. 

That yet hae t arrow 't at it ; 
But or the day was done. I trow, 

The laggen they hae dautet 

Fu' clean that day. 

* Kinjr Henry V. 

+ Sir John Falstaff : vide Shakspeare. 
X Aliudinc to the newspaper account of a certain 
royal sailor's amour. 
9, 



THE VISION, 
DUAN FIRST.* 

The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play. 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green. 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary Jlinghi-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fiU'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime. 

An' done nae-thing, 
But stringin blethers up in rhyme. 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 

My cash account, 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof. 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme proof 

Till my last breath. 

When click ! the string the snick did draw 
And jee I the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 
And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad hoUv-honghs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round Tier brows; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 

A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace," 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honor. 

* Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divi- 
sions of a diirressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. 
ii. of M'Pherson's translation. 



18 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seera'd, to my astonished view, 

A well known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost; 
There, mountains in the skies were tost ; 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast. 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon. pour'd down his far- fetched floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds ; 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods. 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread. 
An ancient borough rear'd her head; 
Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair, 
Or ruins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 
To see a race* heroic wheel. 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their stubborn foes. 

His country's savior.t mark him well ! 
Bold Richardtoji''st heroic swell; 
The chief on Sark^ who glorious fell. 

In high command; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a scepter'd Pictish shadell 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colors strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

* The Wallaces. f William Wallace. 

t Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im- 
mortal preserver of Scottish independence. 

$ Wallace, Laird of Craig^ie, who was second in 
command, under Douglas earl of Ormond, at the fa- 
mous battle on the banks of S;irk, fouj,'ht anno 1448. 
That glorious victory was principally owing to the 
judicious conduct and intrepid valor of the gallant 
Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the 
action. 

II Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district 
of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradi- 
lion says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries 
of Coil's field, where his burial-place is still shown. 



Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,* 
Near many a herniit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love) 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck, reverential awet 
The learned sire and son I saw. 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw. 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave wardt I vvell could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
Who call'd on fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on. 
Where many a patriot name on high, 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly-seeming /air ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear. 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

*' All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

" Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labors ply. 

" They Scotia's race among them share ; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care. 
The tuneful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hand. 

" And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His ' Minstrel lays;' 
Or tore, with noble ardor stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

* Barskimming the seat of the Lord Justice-Clerk. 
t Catrine, the seat of the late doctor and present 
Professor Stewart. 
$ Colonel Fullarton. 



BURNS' POEMS, 



It 



" To lower orders are assigned 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab 'ring Hind, 

The Artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain. 
The threatening storm some strongly rein, 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

" Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the laborer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some, bounded to a district -space, 
Explore at large man's infant race. 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

" Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim. 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r; 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroil'd chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

*' I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or, when the deep green-mantl'd earth. 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Caird forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys. 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivermg shot thy nerves along. 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th' ador'd Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 



"I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become my friends. 

" Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thompso7i's landscape-glow; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With Shrnstone''s art; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

" Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose. 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine : 
And trust me, not PotosVs mine, 

Nor kings' regard 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic Bard. 

" To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the Dignity of Man, 

With soul erect; 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

" And wear thou <Ais" — she solemn said. 
And bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID; 
ox, 

THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump tliein ay thegither ; 
The Ri?i(i Righteoiis is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise aiiither : 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' raff in ; 
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' daffin. 

Solomon.— Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16, 

I. 

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebor's faults and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water. 
The heapet happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

II. 

Hear me, ye venerable core. 

As counsel for poor mortals. 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals; 



20 



BURNS' POEMS, 



I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 
III. 
Ye see your state \vi' theirs compared, 

And shudder at the nifier, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What makes the mighty differ ; 
Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye priue in, 
And (whar's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 
IV. 
Think, when your castigated pulse, 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gollop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It makes aji unco leeway. 
V. 
See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
Or, would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to taste, 

D-mnation of expenses ! 
VI. 
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor frailty names. 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 
VII. 
Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman : 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang ; 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 
VIII. 
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us; 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias: 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute. 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 

An honest man's the noblest work of God. — Pope. 

Has auld K********* seen the Deil ? 
Or great M' ****** *t thrawn his heel ! 
Or R* ****** again crown weel, \ 

To preach an' read. 



'• Na, waur than a!" cries ilka chiel, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

K********* lang may grunt an' grane, 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane. 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, 

In mourning weed; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tam Samson's dead! 

The brethren of the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel. 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel : 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core. 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time of need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score^ 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail. 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail. 

And geds for greed. 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead. 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd. 
Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd. 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead. 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Nowev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Owre many a weary hag he hmpit. 
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit. 
Till coward death behint him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout or trumpit, 

Tam Samson's dead! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger. 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 

* When this worthy old sportsman went out Inst 
muir-fowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossi- 
an's phrase, " the last of his fields ;" and expressed 
an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. 
On this hint the author composed his elegy and epi- 
taph. 

lA certain preacher, a great favorite with the 
million. Vide ilie Ordination, stanza II. 

i Another preacher, an equal favorite with the 
few who was at that lime ailing. For him, see also 
the Ordination, stanza IX. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



21 



But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel airn'd heed ; 

"L — d, five !" he cry'd, aii'owre did stagger; 
Tarn Samson's dead! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourned a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burnshas wrote, in rhyming blether, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould' ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed; 
Alas I nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead I 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther an' lead. 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' monie mair than me ; 
He had twa faults, or may be three. 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel- worn clay here lies. 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend ere ye win near him. 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie.* 
Tell ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin, 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 
Tam Samson''s livin. 



HALLOWEEN. t 

The following Poem will, by nrifiny readers, be well 
enough understood ; but for the sake of those who 
are unacquainted with the manners and traditions 
of the country where the scene is cast, notes are 
added, to give some account of the principal charms 
and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the 
peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of 
prying into futurity makes a striking part of the his- 
tory of human nature in its rude state, in all ages 
and nations ; and it may be some entertainment to a 
philosophic mind, if any such should honor the 
author with a perusal, to see the remains of it, 
among the more unenlightened in our own. 

*KilUe is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use 
for Kilmarnock. 

fls thought to he the night when witches, devils, 
and other mischif'f making brings, are all abroad on 
their baneful, midnight errands ; particularly those 
aerial people, the Fairies, are said on that night, to 
hold a grand anniversary. 



Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 



Ufon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Dow7ians* dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance; 
Or for Cohan the route is ta'en. 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the core,t to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams. 

To sport that night. 

II. 

Amang the bonnie winding banks. 

Where Doon rins, wimpling clear. 
Where Bruce! ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear. 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene. 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 

III. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten. 
Some unco blate, an' some wi'gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 

Whiles fast at night. 

IV. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail. 

Their stocks'^ maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, 

For muckle anes an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aflfthe drift. 

An' wander'd thro' the how-kail, 
An' pow't for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



Then, straught or crooked, yird or nana, 
They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 

* Tertain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the 
neighborhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cas- 
silis. 

t A noted cavern near Colean-house, called Tlie 
Cove of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, is fam- 
ed in country story for being a favorite haunt of fai- 
ries. 

I The famous family of that name, the ancestors of 
Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls 
of Carrick. 

$ The first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each 
a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in 
hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet 
with: Its being big or little, straight or crooked, is 
propheticof the .siize and shape of the grand object of 
all their spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, or 
earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune ; 
and the taste of the cvsioc, that is, tlie heart of the 
stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposi- 
tion. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordi- 
nary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere 
above the head of the door : and the christian names 
of the people whom chance brings into tlie house, are, 
according to the priority of placing the runts, the 
names in question. 



22 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The vera wee things, todhn, rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 

An' gif the custoc^s sweet or sour, 
Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 

Syne coziely, aboon the door, 
Wi' cannie care they place them 
To he that night. 

VI. 

The lasses straw frae 'mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn ;* 
But Rab shps out, an' jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost. 

When kiuttiin in the fause-house t 

Wi' him that night. 

VII. 

The auld guidwife's weel hoordet 7iits t 

Are round an' round divided, 
An' monie lads' and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi'saucie pride. 
And jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 
VIII. 
Jean sTips in twa, wi' tentie e'e, 

Wha 'twas she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, an' she ower him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fuff ! he started up the lum. 
And Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 
IX. 
Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit it burnt it; 
While Willie lap. and swoor hy jing, 
'Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 
X. 
Nell had the fause-house in her min,' 

She pits hersel an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 
Till white in ase they're sobbin : 
Nell's heart was dancin at the view, 
She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 
Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 
♦ They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk 
wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the 
stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage- 
bed any thing but a maid. 

f When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too 
green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old 
timber, &c., makes a large apartment, in his stack, 
with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to 
the wind : this he calls a fmise-house. 

X Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name 
the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay 
Ihem in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quiet- 
ly together, or start from beside one another, the 
course and issue of the courtship will be. 



XI. 
But Merran sat behint their backs. 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel ; 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then. 
An' darklins grapit for the banks. 

And in ihe blue-clue* throws then, 

Right fear't that night. 

xn. 

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin ! 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas abauken. 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin 

To spier that night. 

XIII. 
Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? 
I'll eat the applef at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 
She fuflf't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 
She notic't na, an azle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

XIV. 
" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face! 

How daur you try sic sporfin. 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret 

On sic a night. 

XV. 

•'Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

I mind't as weel' yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green ; 
An' ay a rantin kirn we gat. 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

XVI. 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean. 

That liv'd in Achmacalla: 

* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
strictly observe these directions ; Steal out, all alone, 
to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of 
blue yarn ; wind it in a new clue off the old one ; and, 
towards the latter end, something will hold the 
thread ; demand wha hands ? i. e. who holds 1 an an- 
swer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming 
the Christian and surname of your future spouse. 

t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; 
eat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you 
should comb your hair, all the time ; the face of your 
conjugal companion, to he. will be seen in the glass, 
as if peeping over your shoulder. 



BURNS' POEMS, 



23 



lie gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was by himsel, 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

XVII. 
Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed, a peck; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The auld guidinan raught down the pock, 

An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip fra 'mang the folk 

Sometime when nae ane see' d him : 
An' try', that night. 

XVIII. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

An' haurls at his curpin: 
An' ev'ry now an' then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee. 

As fast this night." 

XIX. 

He whistl'd up Lord Lenox' march, 

To keep his courage cheerie ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch. 

He was see fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek. 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

XX. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld came rinnin out. 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 
Asteer that night ! 

XXL 

Meg fain wad to the barn gaen 
To win three wechts o' nuething;i 

* Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp- 
seed ; harrowina: it with any thing you can conveni- 
ently draw after you. Repeat now and then, "Heinp- 
Beed I saw thee ; hemp-seed 1 saw thee ; and him (or 
her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou 
thee.'' Look over your left shoulder, and you will see 
the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude 
of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, " come after me, 
and shaw thee," that is, show thyself: in which case 
it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and 
say, "come after me, and harrow thee." 

+ The charm must likewise be preformed unper- 
ceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both 
doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible ; for 
there is danger that the beintr, about to appear, may 
shut the doors, and do you some mischief Then take 
that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, 
in our country dialect, we call a irecht ; and go 
through all the attitudes of letting down corn against 
the wind. Repeat it three times ; and the third time 
an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the 
windy door, and out at the other, having both the 
figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, 
marking the employment or station in life. 



But for to meet the deil her lane. 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits. 

An' twa red cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for tlie barn she sets. 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera night. 

XXIL 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 
An' owre the threshold ventures; 

But first on Sawnie gies a ca'. 
Syne bauldly in she enters ; 

A rattan rattled up the wa'. 
An' she cry'd, L — d preserve her, 

An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervor, 

Fu' fast that night. 

XXIII. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice : 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom^d thrice,* 

Was timmer propt for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke. 

Till skin in blypes came haurlin 

AfT's nieves that night. 

XXIV. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlen ; 
But och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' sett! in ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds^ lands met at a burn,f 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 

Was bent that night. 

XXV. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

XXVL 

Amang the brachens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon. 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leeze's heart maist lap the hool 

Neer lav'rock height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

♦ Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bean 
stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fa- 
thom of the last time, you will catch in your arms tbe 
appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 

t You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, 
to a south running spring or rivulet, where " three 
lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go 
to bed in sight of a fire, and hang yotir wet sleeve be- 
fore it to dry. Lie awake ; and sometime near mid- 
night, an apparition, having the exact figure of tho 
grand object in question, will come and turn the 
sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it. 



24 



BURNS POEMS 



XXVIl. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three* are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar^s year did desire. 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 
Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they dinna weary ; 
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery, 
T'lWhutter'd so'iis,^ wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt. 

They parted afFcareerin 

Fu' biythe that night. 



THE AULD FARMER'S 
NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION 

TO 

HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to han- 
sel in the New-Year. 

A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 

Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee 
A nee in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank. 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 
Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine an' twenty year. 
Sin' thou was my good father's meere; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear. 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 

♦ Take three dishes ; put clean water in one, foul 
water in another, leave the third empty : blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth where the dish- 
es are ranged ; he (or she) dips the left hand ; if by 
chance in the clean water, the future husband or 
wife will come to the bar of matrimony chaste ; if in 
the foul, the reverse ; if in the empty dish, it foretells, 
with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeat- 
ed three times, and every time the arrangement of the 
dishes is altered. 

f Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is 
always the Halloween Supper. 



Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 

But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie. 
An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet, an'gracefu' she did ride, 
Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide. 
For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble. 

Far, far behin'. 

When thou an' I were young an'skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 
An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Where'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle. 

An' gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O'saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-la7i\ 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn! 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pith, an' pow'r. 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 

An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' threaten'd labor back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it : 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then steed to biaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pi eugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw : 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa. 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' w" i' the weary wurl' fought ! 



BURNS' POEMS 



25 



An' monie an anxious day, I thought 
We wad be beat ! 

Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 
VVi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now prehaps thou's less deservin, 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last/oM, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 
Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care, I'll flit thy tether. 

To some hain'd rig, 
Where ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 



ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murdering pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion. 

Which maks thee startle 
At me, they poor earth-born companion. 
An' fellow mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
What them ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a throve 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An* bleak December's winds ensuin, 

Baith snell and keen! 

Thou saw the field laid bear an' waste. 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
lias cost thee monie a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain. 

For promis'd joy. 



Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e. 

On prospects drear. 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess diiV fear. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pityless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
Your loop'd and window'd rapgedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ?— Shakspeare. 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Fhcebus gies a short-liv'd giow'r 

Far south the lift. 

Dim-dark' ning thro' the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd. 
Poor labor sweet in sleep was lock'd, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-chock'd, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle. 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle, 

O' winter war. 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle. 
Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That, in the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing. 
An' close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you, on murd'ring errands toil'd. 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, 

My heart forgets, 
While pityless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muflB'd, view'd the dreary plain. 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train. 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole- 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, thou bitter, biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your ra^e, as now united, shows 
More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 
Vengeful malice, unrepenting. 
Than heav'n illumin'd man on brother man be« 
stows ! 
See stern oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Wo, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 



26 



BURNS' POEMS. 



How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With ail the servile wretches in the rear, 

Look o'er proud property, extended wide; 
And eyes tlie simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 

Flac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, be- 
low ; 
Where, where is love's fond, tender throe. 
With lordly honor's lofty brow, 
The pow'rs you proudly own? 
Is there, beneath love's noble name, 
Can harbor, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasted honor turns away 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 

Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
Ferhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 

And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh ye ! who sunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create. 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 

Ill-satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to 
sleep. 

While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifiy heap : 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's underserved blow ? 

Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 

A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ! 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
Shook off the pouthery snaw, 

And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 
A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind- 
Thro' all his works abroad, 

The heart, benevolent and kind. 
The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 



A BROTHER POET. 



January- 



Whtle winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us ower the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 

That live sae bien an' snug : 

* David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and 
author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dia- 
lect.— E. 



I tent less, and want less 

Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker. 

To see their cursed pride. 

II. 
It's hardly in a body's pow'r. 
To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want. 
While coots on countless thousands rant. 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread. 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na', nor fear na,"* 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg. 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

HI. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guilt. 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has ay some cause to smjle, 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

IV. 

What tho', like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where. 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods. 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then. 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing 't when we hae done. 

V. 
It's no in titles nor in rank ; 
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank. 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin muckle mair : 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear. 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may Lo wise, or rich, or great. 
But never can be blest ; 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures. 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay, 
That makes us right or wrang. 

VI. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry 
Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
* Rumsay. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



27 



Think ye, are we less blest than they 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress I 
Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell! 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

VII. 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel : 
rhey make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses, and crosses. 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'Il find nae other where. 

VIII. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say auRht less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Me^, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me. 
To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beats me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

IX. 

O' all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
O Thou, whose very self art love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear, immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest. 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 



All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear. 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days. 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has bless'd me with a friend. 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 

A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 



To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 



XI. 
O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine. 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jump. 
An' rin an unco fit : 

But least then, the beast then, 

Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty wizen'd hide, 



THE LAMENT, 



occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a 
friend's amour. 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself. 
And sweet Afleclion prove the spring of wo ! 

Home 



I. 

THOU pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep I 

Thou seets a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep I 

With wo I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam ; 

And mourn, in lamentation deep. 
How life and love are all a dream. 

II. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn. 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

Forever bar returning peace ! 

III. 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim, 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft attested pow'rs above : 
The promis''d Father's tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

IV. 

Encircled in her claspins: arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown I 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it 1 is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast? 
And does she heedless hear my groan? 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 



28 



BURNS' POEMS. 



V. 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honor, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ; 

Her way lead far thro' rough distress ! 
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 

VI. 

Ye winged hours, that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd. 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

VII. 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and wo : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train. 
Must wring my soul, ere Pha3bus, low. 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

vni. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 



Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes, never, never, to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev"ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's woary vale I'll wander thro', 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY, 

AN ODE. 



Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh : 
O hfe I thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 



Dim backward as I cast my view, 

What sick'ning scenes appear I 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er, 
But with the closing tomb ! 

II. 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end 's deny'dj 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon' d wight, 

Unfitted with an aim. 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling. 

Forget each grief and pain : 
I, listless, yet restless. 
Find every prospect vain. 

III. 

How blest the Solitary's lot. 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell. 
The cavern wild, with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought. 

By unfi-equented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve. 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, love, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste. 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest . 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate. 
Whilst I here, must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 



Oh I enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown 1 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish : 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim-declining age. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



WINTER, 



A ninoE. 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or. the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest 

And pass the heartless day. 

II. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"* 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine. 

III. 

Thou Pow^r Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfill, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best. 

Because they are Thy Will : 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO K. A****, ESQ. 

Let not ambition mock their usiiful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short but simple annals of the poor.— GRAY. 



Mv lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! 

No mercenary bard bis homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways : 

What A**** in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah! tho'his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

II. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes. 

This vip^ht his weekly toil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the vwrn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward 
bend. 

III. 
At length his lonely cot apears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant vee-thinirs, toddlin, stacher thro' 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily. 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wife^s smile, 
The lisping infant prating on his knee, 

Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile. 
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. 

• Dr. Young. 



IV. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out ainang tlie farmers roun'; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some lentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

V. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

VI. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command. 

The younker.s a' are warned to obey ; 
"An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand. 

An ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alvvay ! 

An' mind your dtity, duly, morn an' night! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
Implore liis counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright." 

VII. 
But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny^s e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
"With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name. 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worth- 
less rake. 

VIII. 
W^i' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's nae ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the 
lave. 

IX. 
O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'n- 
ing gale." 

X. 
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth 1 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
Points to the parents fftndling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction 
wild? 

XI. 
But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; 
The soupe their only Hawkie docs afford. 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 



30 



B URNS' POEMS 



The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

XII. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 

The big ha-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And "Let us worship God !" he says, with solemn air. 

XHI. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise. 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee^s wild warbling measures rise. 

Or plaintive J\Iartyrs, worthy of the name, 
Or noble Elg-in beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia^s holy lays ; 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek\s ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the roijal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging ire; 
Or ./oft's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah^s wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he. who lone in Patmos banished. 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon''s doom pronounc'd by 
Heav'n's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope "springs exuliing on triumphant wing,"* 

That thus thoy all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to siirh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

xvn. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide. 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart. 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

XVIII. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest. 

And decks the lily fair with fiow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

* Pope's Windsor Forest. 



XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia^s grandeur springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad ; 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

"An honest man's the noblest work of God :" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp '. a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil. 

Be bless'd with health, and peace, and calm con- 
tent : 
And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their rauch-lov'd Isle. 

XXI. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro' JVallace's undaunted heart; 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
O never, never, Scofta's realm desert; 

But still the patriot and the patriot bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN, 



I. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of ^v'"' 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow' d o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

ir. 

" Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" 

Began the reverend sage ; 
" Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ; 
Or haply, press'd with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wemder forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

III. 

" The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labor to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

" O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time I 
Mispending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ' 



BURNS' POEMS 



31 



Alternate follies take the sway 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 

'J'hat man was made to mourn. 



'* Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn. 
Then age and want, oh ! ill m^itch'd pair, 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VL 

" A few seem favorites of fate. 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Vet think not, all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But' oh I what crowds in ev'ry land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn. 

That man was made to mourn. 

VIL 

*' Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves. 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn! 

vin. 

*' See yonder poor, o'erlabor'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his \ord\y fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

IX. 

" If Tm designed yon lordling's slave, — 

By nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

X. 

" Yet, let not this, too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last .' 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

XL 

" O death ! the poor man's dearest friend. 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, oh! a bless'd relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn!" 



PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT 

O F 

DEATH. 

I. 

O THOU unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and lear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

II. 

If I have wandcr'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun, 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

IIL 

Thou know' St that thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

IV. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside. 
Do thou, All-Good I for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

V. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have. 
But. Thou art good; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 
storms: 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, iny terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence !" 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray: 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

W^ho act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation 
ran? 

O thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lilted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong, furious passions to confine; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; 
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine! 



32 



BURNS' POEMS 



LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, 
THE AUTHOR LEFT 

THE FOLLOWING- VERSES 
IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 



O THOU dread Povv'r, who reign'st above ! 

I know thou wilt me hear : 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

II. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare ! 

To bless his little filial flock. 
And show what good men are. 

III. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O, bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears 5 

IV. 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth. 

Up to a parent's wish ! 

V. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray. 
Thou know' St the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

VI. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, 
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 

A family in Heav'n ! 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd. 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad. 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high. 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt, 
Shall to the ground be cast. 

And like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore. 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

O THOU Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands. 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou. Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wild design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINTIETH 
PSALM. 

O THOU, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place I 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself. 

Arose at thy command : 

That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds 

This universal frame. 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast. 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word: thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !" 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off" 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd; 
But long ere night, cut down it lies. 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN 
APRIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



33^ 



To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 
Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

VVi' spreckled breast; 
When upward-springing, biythe to greet 
The purphng east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, 
But thou, beneath the random bield 
O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble -field, 

Unseen, alane. 
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the sJiare uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet fow'Tet of the rural shade! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
Unskillful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er! 

Such fate o( sufferi?ig worth is giv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n. 
By human pride or cunning driv'n. 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'71, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

E'vn thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate 
Tliatfate is th'nie — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight. 

Shall be thy doom ! 



TO RUIN. 
I. 
All hail ! inexorable lord! 
At whose destruction-breathing word. 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel wo-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eyes, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart : 
Then lowering, and pouring, 
The storm no more I dread ; 



Tho' thick'ning, and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 

II. 

And. thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 

O ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! 
No more I shrink appail'd, afraid; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul in silent peace, 

Resign Vik's joyless day; 
My weary heart its throbbing cease, 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace I 



TO MISS L — , 

WITH BEATTIE's poems AS A NEW- YEAR'S GIFT, 
JAN. 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n. 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts. 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts. 

In Edvnn's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

MAY— 1786. 
I. 

I LANGhae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento; 
But how the subject-theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

n. 

Ye'U try the world soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'U find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye. 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

III. 

I'll no say, men are villains a'; 

The real, harden' d wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law. 

Are to a few restricked : 
But och ! mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 



34 



B URNS' POEMS, 



1( seJf the wavering balance shake, 
It's rarely right adjusted I 

IV. 

Yet they wha fa 'in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should nae censure, 
For still th' important end of life, 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae na cash to spare him. 



Ay free, aff han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, slee inspection. 

VI. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho'naething should divulge it ! 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

VII. 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honor ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Not for a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independnet. 

VIII. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip. 

To baud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honor grip, 

Let that ay be your border ; 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debat a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

IX. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended I 



When ranting round in ph^asure's ring. 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting. 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 



XL 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
Mav prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

firect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you speed, 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser ' 



ON A SCOTCH BARD 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' TE wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come mourn wi' me ! 
Our hillie''s gien us a' a jink. 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry-roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore. 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear -petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea. 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble. 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld, cantie Klye may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear. 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate monie a year. 

That's owre the sea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be I 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock. 
On scarce a bellyfu'o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach. 

Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdles in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



35 



Yell find him ay a dainty chiel, 

And fou' o'glee ; 

He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

Thai's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composins hillie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-wiUie ; 
But may ye flourish like a Hly, 

Now bonnihe ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm, 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdles like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distill 
Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labor dight, 
An' cut you up with ready slight. 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, 
Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad straw a sow. 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner. 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 
On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 
As feckless as a wither'd rash. 
His spindle shank a guid whip lash, 
His nieve a nit; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 
O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic. hag<ris-fed, 
The trembling earth resounds his tread. 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned. 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye pow'rs. wha mak mankind your care. 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis I 



A DEDICATION 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na. Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin,fleth'rin dedication. 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid. 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're surnam'd like his grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie. 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laigh I need na now, 
For, Lord be thankit, 7 can plough; 
And when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flalt'rin. 
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angle help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winnalie, come what will o'me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant. 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says, he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Tiir aft his guidness is abus'd : 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, na thanks to him for a' that, 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature, 
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature ! 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The genthman in word and deed. 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tion ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice I 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a tninnock frae a wh-re, 
But point the rake that taks the door: 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And hand their noses to the grunstane. 
Ply every art o' legal thieving; 
No matter, stick to sou7id believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces ; 



36 



BURNS' POEMS 



Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 

Ye'll some day squeal in qiiaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him: 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever deep'ning tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir. ye see 'twas nae daft vapor. 
But I maturely thought it proper. 
When a' my work 1 did review. 
To dedicate them. Sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel. 

Then patronize them wi' your favor. 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said, ever pray, 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
That kens or hears about you. Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk .' 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May K******'s far honor'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
Till H*******'s, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labors risen ; 
Five bonnie lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel. 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel! 
May health and peace, wijh mutual rays. 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie Johii's ier-oe. 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!" 

1 will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complementary effusion : 

But whilst your wishes and endeavors 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favors.. 
T am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!) 
That iron-hearted carl. Want, 
Attended in his grim advances. 
By sad mistake and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor' 
But by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n! 
While recollection's pow'r is given. 
If, in the vale of humble life. 
The victim sad of fortune's strife. 



I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 

Should recognize my muster dear. 

If friendless, low, we meet together, 

Then, Sir, your hand, — my friend and brother. 



TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEINa ONE ON A T.ADY's BONNET AT 
CHURCH. 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly ! 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn'd by saint an' sinner. 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haflfet squattle ; 
Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle. 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn or lane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight : 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

"Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 
O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out. 
As plump, and gray as onie grozet ; 
O for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, 

Wad dress your droddum' 

I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flainen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie. 

How dare ye do't ! 

O Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' ahead ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

That blastie's makin ! 
Thae wi?iJcs and finger-ends, I dread. 

Are notice takin ! 

O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us. 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 
I. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 
I All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 



BURNS' POEMS 



37 



Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
P>om marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter in thy honor'd shade. 
II. 
Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labor plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendor rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes. 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 
III. 
Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrovr, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail. 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 
IV. 
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ! 
I see the sire of love on high. 

And own his works indeed divine ! 
V. 
There, watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar. 
The pond'rous walls and ma.ssy bar. 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 
VI. 
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas! how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just! 
VII. 
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n 1, who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar. 

Bold-following when your fathers led ! 
VIII. 
Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honor d shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 
AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

APRIL 1st, 1785. 

While briers and woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en. 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unhwwfi frien', 
I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin. 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ; 
And there was muckle fun an' jokin. 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 
At sang about. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 
A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describes sae weal, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, ** Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark!" 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 
About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. 
And sae about nim there I spier't 
Then a' that ken't him round declar'd 

He had ingine. 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 
It was sae fine. 

That set him to a pint of ale. 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith. 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough. 
Yet crooning to a body's sel. 

Does well enough. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 
An' hae to learning nae pretence. 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 
I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose. 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 
To mak a sa?ig ? 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 



38 



BURNS' POEMS 



What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ; 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 
At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be. 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me. 
If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve. are few. 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 

But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me, 

Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae weefaut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Gude forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance or fair ; 
May be some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But 31auchli?ie race, or Manchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care. 

If we forgather. 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware 

VVi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin water; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. 
To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith we'se be acquainted better 
Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish, warly race, 
Wha think that bavins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place 

To catch-the-plack ; 
I dinna like to see your face. 

Nor hear you crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose heart the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

Each aid the others', 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers ! 



But to conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle, 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent. 
While I can either sing or whissle. 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 
APRIL 2Ut, 1785. 

While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik. 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest -hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs. 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours' bite, 
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs 

I would na write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's ^aft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy. 

This month an' mair, 
That trouth my head is grown right dizzie. 

An' something sair." 

Her dowfT excuses pat me mad ; 
" Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jad , 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye afTront your trade. 

But rhyme it right. 

" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts. 

In terms so friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts. 

An' thank him kindly ;" 

Sae I gat paper in a blink. 
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 
Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winna mak it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it ;" 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak' proof; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch : 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp : 

She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg. 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg. 

As lang's I dow ! 



BURNS' POEMS 



39 



Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer 
IV seen the bud upo' the timmer, . 

Still persecuted by the linimer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kinimer, 
7, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 
Behint a kisi to lie and sklent, 
Or purse-proud, big wi'cenl. per cent. 

And mucklc wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks himsel na sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets affare ta'en, 

As by he walks ? 

"0 Thou wha gies us each guidgift! 
Gie me o* wit an' sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. 

In a' their pride I" 

Were this the charter of our state, 
"On pain o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation would then be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'nl that's no the gate 
We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
"The scocial, friendly, honest man, 
Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfills great Nature's plan, 

An' none but Ae.'" 

mandate glorious and divine ! 
The ragged followers of the Nine, 
Poor, thougtless devils I yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line, 

Are dark as night, 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl. 
Their worthless nievefu of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's tie 

Each passing year. 



TO W. S*****N, 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 

I GAT your letter, winsome Willie; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly. 
An' unco vain, 
Should I believe my coaxin' billie. 

Your flatterin strain. 



But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelin's sklented 

On my poor Musie; 
Tho' in sic phrasin' terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel 
Should I but dare a hojje to speel 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbert field.. 

1'he braes o' fame ; 
Or Furgusson, the writer-chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(O Furgusson .' thy glorious parts 
III suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
My curse upon your whunstane hearts. 

Ye Enbrugh Gentry I 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes. 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As whyles they're like to be my deed, 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain. 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd style; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland^ 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil, 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Furgusson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

An cock your crest. 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells. 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae Southron billies. 

At Wallace'' name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side. 
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 

Or glorious dy'd. 

O, Sweet are Coila' s haughs an' woods. 
When lint-whites chant amang the buds. 
And jinkin hares, in armorous whids. 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry I 



40 



B URNS' POEMS 



Ev'n winter bleak has charms for me, 
When winds rave thro' tiie naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Darkening the day ! 

O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the simmer kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 

The Muse, na poet ever fand her. 
Till by himsel, he learn'd to wander 
Adown some trotting burn's meander. 

An' no think lang ; 
O sweet ! to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive. 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brither ! 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegiiher. 

In love fraternal: 
May Envy wallop in a tether. 

Black fiend, infernal I 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; 
While terra firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice. 

In Robert Burns. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



My memory's no worth a preen ; 
I had amaist forgotten clean, 
Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this New- Light* 
'Bout which our herds sac aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents. 
They took nae pains their speech to balance 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallans, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing. 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They got a new one. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it. 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 
Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk. 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
♦See note, page 12, 



For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk. 
An' out o' sight. 

An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm 'd; 
The herds an' hissels were alarm'd : 
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aithe to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' burnt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks. 
The lairds forbade, by strict commands. 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe. 
Folk thought them ruin'd, stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow. 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin ; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin 
Wi' grinin spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly He'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns: 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things thy ca' balloons, 

To tak a flight. 
An' stay a month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them ; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 
I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a "moonshine matter;" 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO J. R******, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O KOUGH, rude, ready-witted R******^ 
The wale o' cocks for f^un an drinkin 1 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin. 

Your dreams* an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, 

Straught to auld Nick's. 

* A certain humorous dream of his was then ma- 
king a noise in the country-side. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



41 



Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked drunken rants, 
Yemak a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 
Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spar 't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives 't aft' their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-jyowii badge an' claithuig 
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent ye home some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for. an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang,* ye' II sen't wi' cannie care. 

And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring. 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gane an' sair'd the kmg. 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun, 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun. 
An' brought a pai trick to the grun, 
A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt; 
I straikit it a wee for sport. 
Ne'er ihinkin they wad fash me for't ; 

But. deil-ma-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacfur-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note. 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat. 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gnn, o' guns the wale. 
An' by my pouther an' my hail. 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale. 
For this, neist year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by. 
An' the wee pouts begin to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sportin by an' by. 

For my gowd guinea : 
Tho' I should herd the huckski7i kye 

For't in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wanie 

Scarce thro' the feathers ; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim. 

An' thole their blethers ! 

•A song he had promised the Author. 



It pits me ay as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nao mair; 
But pennyworths again is fair. 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN,* 
A BALLAD. 

There were three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solenm oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

II. 

They took a plow and plow'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head. 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

III. 

But cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And shovvers began to fall : 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surprised them all, 

IV. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong. 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears. 
That no one should him wrong. 



The sober autumn enter'd mild. 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 

VI. 

His color sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

VII. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp. 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast njion a cart. 

Like a rogue for forgerie 

VIII. 

They laid him down upon his back. 

And cudgel'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

IX. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim. 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

X. 

They laid him out upon the floor. 

To work him farther wo. 
And still, as siofns of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

*Tl)is is partly composed on the plan of an old song 
known by the same name. 



42 



BURNS' POEMS 



XI. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two stones. 

XII. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

XIII. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

XIV. 

'Twill make a man forget his wo ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

XV. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



A FRAGMENT, 
Tune — " Gillicrankie,' 



"When Guilford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

II. 
Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn. 

And Carlefon did ca', man : 
But yet, what reck, he. at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 

III. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage 

Was kept at Boston ha\ man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid christian blood to draw, man ; 
But at New- York, wi' knife an' fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

IV. 

BuTgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 
Till Fraser brave did fa', man ; 

Then lost his way, ae misty day, 
In Saratoga shavv, man. 

Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, 
An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 



But Clinton'' $ glaive frae rust to save, 
He hung it to the wa', man. 



Then Montague, an' Guilford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doiire, wha stood the stoure, 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
And Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

VI. 

Then Rockinsham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North an' Fox united stocks, 

An' bore him to the wa', man. 

VII. 

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace, oi Indian race. 

Led him a smr faux pas, man: 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 

On Chatham's hoy did ca', man ; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man!" 

VIII. 

Behind the throne then GrenvilW s gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 

Would I hae fear'd them a', man ?" 

IX. 

But, word an' blow. North, Fox, and Co. 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba,' man. 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone. 

An' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood. 

To make it guid in law, man. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Corn rigs are bonnie." 

I. 

It was upon a Lammas night. 

When corn rigs ae bonnie, 
Bencnth the moon's mclouded light, 

I heM awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early ; 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed. 

To see me thro' the barley. 

II. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still. 
The moon was shinging clearly ; 



BURNS' POEMS 



43 



I set me down, wi' right good will, 
Amang the rigs o' barley : 

I kenn't her heart was a' my ain ; 
I lov'd her most sincerely ; 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again 
Amang the rigs o' barley. 

III. 
I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly, 
She ay shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

IV. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinking ; 
I hae been joyfu' gathrin gear ; 

I hae been happy thinkin : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 
Corn rigs, an'' barley rigs, 

An^ corn rigs are honnie : 
ril 716" er forget that hajrpy night, 

Amang the rigs wi'' Annie. 



SONG. 



COMPOSED m AUGUST. 

TuMK — "I had a horse, I had nae mair." 

I. 

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather ; 
Now wavinw grain, wide o'er the plain. 

Delights the weary farmer ; [night, 

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at 

To muse upon my charmer. 

II. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

III. 
Thus every kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt ! away I the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion I 

IV. 

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear. 
Thick fiies the skimming swallow ; 



The sky is blue, the fields in view, 
All fading, green and yellow : 

Come let us stray our gladsome way. 
And view the charms of nature ; 

The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 
And every happy creature. 

V. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk. 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to btidding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the fanner. 
So dear can be as thou to me. 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



SONG. 
Tune—'- My Nannie, O." 



Behind yon hills where Lugar * flows, 
'Mang moors and mosses many, O! 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nannie O. 

II. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill ; 

The night's baith mirk an' rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, 0. 

III. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' younc 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 

IV. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonnie, O: 

The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

V. 

A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O. 

VI. 

My riches a's my penny-fee. 
An' I maun guide it cannie, ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 

VTI. 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

But I'm as blythe that bauds his pleugh, 
An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 

VIII. 

Come weel, come wo, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O. 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nannie, 0. 

•Originally, Stincliar. 



0. 



44 



BURNS' POEMS. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 
A FRAGMENT. 

CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, ! 

Green grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spe7it amang the lasses, ! 

I. 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han\ 

In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 
What signifies the hfe o' man, 

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

Gree7i grow, <^c. 

The warly race may riches chase. 

An' riches still may fly them, O ; 
An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts ne'er can enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, d-c. 
III. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 
An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie. ! 

Green grow, d-c. 
IV. ^ 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O : 
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 

Green grow, <^c. 
V. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 

Green grow, ^c. 



Tune- 



song. 

'Jockey's Gray Breeks.' 



Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS.* 

And mauTi 1 still on 3Ienief doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 

For iVs jet, jet black, aiV it's like a hawk, 
An'' it winna let a body be I 

II. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

A7id maun I still, (f-c. 

•This chorus is part of a song composed by a gen- 
tleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the au- 
thor's. 

t Menie is the common abbreviation of Mariamnt. 



HI. 

The merry plowboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, ^c. 

IV. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims. 
And every thing is blest but I. 

A7td mau7i I still, (J-c. 

V. 

The sheep -herd steeks his faulding slap. 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step 
I met him on the dewy hill. 

A7id maun 1 still, <J-c. 

VI. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. 

And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, 
A wo-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

And maun 1 still, (J-c. 

VII. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 



A7id mau7i I still 07i Me7iie doat. 
And bear the scorn thafs in her e'e 1 

For iV s jet, jet black, an'' it^s like a hawk, 
An^ it winna let a body be* 



SONG. 

Tune—" Roslin Castle." 

I. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast. 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure. 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr, 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn; 
Across her placid, azure sky. 
She sees the scowling tempest fly ; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave. 
Where many a danger I must dare. 
Far from the bonnie banks of ^yr. 

*AVe cannot presume to alter any of the poems of 
our bard, and more especially tliose printed under liis 
own direction : yet it is to be regretted that this cho- 
rus, which is not of his own composition, should be 
attached to these fine stanzas, as it perpetually inter- 
rupts the train of sentiment which they excite. Ed. 



BURNS' POEMS 



45 



III. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound. 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
IV. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales. 
Her heathy moors and winding vales; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves. 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves! 
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! 
My peace with these, my love with those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell, the bonnie banks of ^^r. 



SONG. 
Tune— " Guilderoy ." 

I. 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me. 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

11. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear. 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by. 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine the latest sigh I 



THE FAREWELL 

TO THE 

BRETHREN OF ST. JAMEs' LODGE, 

TARBOLTON. 

TuNK — *' Good night, and joy be wi' you a' !" 

I. 
Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tye ! 
Ye favor'd, ye enlighten''d few. 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba'. 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 

II. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 

Oft, honor'd with supreme command. 
Presided o'er the sons of light : 

And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 



Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 
Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

III. 

May freedom, harmony, and love. 

Unite us in the graiid design, 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious Architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line. 

Still rising by the jtlummeVs law, 
Till order bright completely shine. 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

IV. 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honor'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here. 

When yearly ye assemble a'. 
One rotind, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the Bard thuVs far awa\ 



song- 
Tune— "Prepare, my dear brethren, to the Tavern 
let's fly." 

I. 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. 

II. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are 

here. 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

III. 
Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit, with his 

purse ; 
But see you the Crown, how it waves in the air, 
There, a big-belly'd bottle still ceases my care. 

IV. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair. 
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 

V. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

VI. 

''Life's cares they are comforts,"* — a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ? 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of care. 

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 
Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow, 
And honors masonic prepare for to throw ; 
* Young's Night Thoughts. 



46 



BURNS' POEMS 



May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with 

care. 



WRITTEN IN 

FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 
ON NITH-SIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead,— 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance 
Beneath thy morning-star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summit wouldst thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait: 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful peace, with linnet song. 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought. 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought, 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's truth, genuine estimate. 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not. Art thou so high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or (rown of awful Hoav'n 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake. 
Night, where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 

MRS. OF . 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark. 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonor'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse I 

strophe. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet, melting grace ! 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum overflows. 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest! 

antistrophe. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ! 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. 

She, tardy hell-ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail. 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year ? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail. 
Omnipotent as he is here? 
O, bitter mock'ry oi ihe pompous bier, 
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience 
clear, 
Expires in rags unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



ELEGY 

QIC 
CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A gentleman who held a patent for his hon- 
ors IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright; 

His soul was Uke the glorious sun, 
A matchless, Heav'niy Light! 

O DEATH I thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild. 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 



BURNS' POEMS 



47 



Ye hills, near ncebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers, 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers. 

Mourn, ilk a grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, whimplin down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin diu, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 
Frae lin to iin. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev"n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

r th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; 
He's gane forever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flowr'ing clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r. 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 

Oft have ye heard my canty strains: 

But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of wo; 

And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead I 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurlino: thro' the air 

T he roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 



Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night 1 
And you, ye twinkling starnies, bright, 

My Maithew mourn ! 
For thro' your orbs he's ta'en his flight. 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ; the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone forever! 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 
Lite's dreary bound! 
Like thee, where shall I find another. 
The world around ! 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger! my story's brief; 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
I tell nae common lale o' grief. 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast. 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man; 

A look of pity hither cast. 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by his grave, man. 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', 
For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art staunch, wnhout a stain. 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 
And ne'er guid wine did iear. man ; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire. 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT 

OF 

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APrROACH OF SPRING. 

Now nature hangs her mantle green 
On every blooming tree, 



48 



BURNS' POEMS, 



And spread her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea: 
Now PhcEbus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That last in durance lies. 

Now lav' rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild, wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall oppressed. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank. 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy J hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 

As blythe lay down at e'en: 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman. 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortunes shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ! 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ! 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq., 
OF FINTRA. 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest, 
Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest :) 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, heark'ning to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd. 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 



Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found. 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the 

ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious guards his cell. 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour. 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug, 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked, child — the Bard! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill. 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 
No claws to dig. his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn ; 

No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur, 

Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur. 

In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 

He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 

Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 

And scorpion critics careless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame, 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear : 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on throu§-h life. 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd. 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. 
Dead, even resentment, for his injured page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 

rage: 

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd. 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

O dullness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frosts, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder " some folks" do not starve. 
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope. 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
And just conclude that " fools are fortune' scare." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



49 



Not so the idle muses* mad-cap train, 
Not such the worliings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear I 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death 1 



LAMENT 

FOR 

JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream ; 
Beneath a craggy steep, a bard. 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In' loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould' ring down with 
years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time ! 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves. 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing. 

The reliques of the vernal quire I 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honors of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay. 

Again ye' 11 charm the ear and e'e ! 
But notcht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

"I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain. 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm. 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men. 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

"And last (the sum of a' my greifs !) 
My noble master lies in clay ; 



The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay : 

In weary being now I pine. 
For a' the life of life is dead, 

And hope has left my aged ken. 
On forward wing forever fied, 

"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of wo and wild despair ; 
Awake, resound thy latest lay. 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fiUest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 

" In poverty's low, barren vale, 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of wo I 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done ibr me !" 



LINES 
SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, 

OF WHITEFOORD, BART. 
WITH THE FOLLOWINO POEM. 

Thou, who thy honor as thy God rever'st. 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st. 
To thee this votive ofTering I impart. 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
lihe frieiid thou valued'st, I the ■patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honor, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 



TAM O'SHANTER. 

A TALE. 

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. 
Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 



50 



BURNS* POEMS 



As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen danie, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr, ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr whom ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonnie lasses.) 

O Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate s advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober. 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on, 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy 'd that late or soon, 
Thou would be foimd deep drown'd in Boon, 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloways auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames 1 it gars me greet. 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an mgle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his eldow, souter Jolmny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better: 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious ; 
Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tom was glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever ; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely from 
Evanishing amid the storm. — 
Nae man can teiher time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Torn maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his oeast in; 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 



The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 
That night, a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg^ 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and tire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet: 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet : 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn ; 
Whare hunters fand the murder d bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Munso's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods: 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorri ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammies noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle, 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl, — 
Coffins stood round like open presses. 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantraip slight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 
Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe liad strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
V^'hom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 



BURNS' POEMS 



51 



As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew; 
They reePd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had they been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That aiice were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en then aff'my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdiesi 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie. 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang alter kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
For niony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear.) 
Here cutty-sark, o' Paisley ham, 
That while a lassie she had worn. 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coff for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches,) 
"Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wings maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitched, 
And thought his very e"en enriched ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And botched and blew wi' might and main: 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sarkI" 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When, " Catch the thief;" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn! ah, Tarn! thou'll get thy fairin ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate avvaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a wofu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane* of the brig! 

*It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil 
Bpirits, have no power to follow a poor wicht any 
farther than the middle of tlie next runniiit? stream. 
It may be proper likewise to mention to the beniglit- 
ed traveler, that when he falls in with boijles. what- 
ever daneer may be in his goinsf forward, there is 
much more hazard in turning back. 



There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tale she had to shake ! 
For Naiuiie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But liitle wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son tak heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Ta7n o' Shunter's mare. 



ON SEEING- A "WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart I 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains: 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains. 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
rest. 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed I 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 



ADDRESS 
TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBtJGH- 
SUIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 
Or tunes Eolian strains between: 

While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade. 

Yet oft. delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind. 
By Tweed erects his aged head. 

And sees, with self-approving min<l. 
Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows. 



52 



BURNS' POEMS, 



Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows ; 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



EPITAPHS, ETC. 

ON A CELEBRATED RULING- 
ELDER. 

Heke souter**** in death does sleep; 

To h-U, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll haud it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON WEE JOHNIE. 
Hie jacet teee Johnie. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know. 
That death has murder'd Johnie ! 

An' here his body lies fu' low 

For saul, he ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying heart that felt for human wo ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride : 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

"For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's 
side." * 



FOR R. A. Esq. 

Know thou, stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honor'd name; 
fFor none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G. H. Esq. 

The poor man weeps — here G n 

Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or damn''d ! 

♦Goldsmith. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 
Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 
And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song. 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 
But with a frater-feeling strong. 

Here, heave a sigh, 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

This poor inhabitant below 
Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow. 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stained his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 
In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control 
Is wisdom's root. 



ON THK LATE 

CAPT. GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes. 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgle wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And vow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin. 
It's ten to ane ye'U find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! coUeaguin 
At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor. 
And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 
Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'U quake at his conjuring hammer. 

Ye midnight b es. 

•Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. 



BURNS' POEMS 



53 



It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin jackets,* 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 
Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll snape you aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shamefa' thee. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRE- 
SENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud. young and gay. 

Blooming on thy early May, 

Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 

Never Boreas' hoary path, 

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 

Never baleful stellar lights. 

Taint thee with untimely blights ! 

Never, never reptile thief 

Riot on thy virgin leaf! 

Nor even Sol too fiercly view 

Thy bosom, blushing still with dew ! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings. 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed the dying honors round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth, 

t Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armor and Wea- 
pons. 



SONG. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire. 
And waste my soul with care ; 

But ah I how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair. 
So much in sight of Heav'n. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHNM'LEOD, Esq. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR's. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung ; 
So Isabella's heart was form'd. 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone. 

Can heal the wound he gave ; 
Can point the brimful grief- worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 

And fear no withering blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



THK 

HUMBLE PETITION 

O F 

BRUAR WATER* 

TO 

THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know, your noble ear 

Wo ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble Slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams. 

In flaming summer-pride. 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams. 

And drink my crystal tide. 

*Bniar Falls in Athoie are exceedingly pictur- 
esque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired 
by the want of trees and shrubs. 



54 



BURNS' POEMS 



The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up to shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Foet B**** came by, 
That to a Bard I should be seen 

Wr half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twistmg strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a Imn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' 1 say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 
Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes. 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow 'ring trees 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 
The sober laverock, warbling wild. 

Shall to * skies aspire ; 
The gowdtjjmk, music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 
This too, a covert shall ensure, 

I'o shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat 

To weave his crown of flow'rs ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds, with all their wealth, 

As empty, idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms. 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn. 

And misty mountain, gray ; 
Or, by the reapers nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees. 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread. 
And view, deep-pending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 



And, for the little songster's nest, 
The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honor'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

The social flowing glasses, 
To grace be — "Athole's honest men. 

And Athole's bonnie lasses I" 



ON SOARING SOME WATER-FOWL 
IN LOCK-TURIT. 

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF 
OU&HTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys. 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace; 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of ail below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains. 
Where the mossy riv'let strays. 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend. 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and others springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE OHIMNEY-PIECE, 

IN THE PARLOR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAY- 
MOUTH. 

Admiring Nature, in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



bb 



O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey 'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till farn'd Breadalbane opens to my view. 
The meetmg clifls each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample 
sides ; [hills, 

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the 
The eye with wonder and amazement hlls ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdent side ; [taste ; 
The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste, 
The arches striding o'er the new-born-stream ; 
The village glittering in the noontide beam. 

***** 
Poetic ardors in my bosom swell, 
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell ; 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong, tumbling floods — 

***** 

Here posey migni wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative tire ; 
Here, too, the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lightened steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'n-ward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH- 
NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods, 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds. 
Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream 

resounds. 
As high in air tlie bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges loam below, [scends, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 

show'rs. 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding low'rs, 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below the horrid caldron boils — 



ON THE BIRTH 

OF A 

POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY 
DISTRESS. 

Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a pray'r, 
Wtiat heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November liirples o'er the lea, 
Chill, on thy lovely form ; 



And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 
Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving show'r. 
The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of wo and want. 
Who heals life's various stounds. 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 
Fair on the summer morn : 

Now feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unsheller'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath'd by ruffian hand I 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land ! 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is 
curious, I shall here give it. — In the train of Anne of 
Denmark, when she came to Scotland, with our 
James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gen- 
tleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and 
a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little 
ebony Whistle, which, at the commencement of the 
orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was last 
able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the 
potency of the bottle, was to ca . off the Whistle as 
a trophy of victory. The Dane p. uced credentials 
of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts 
of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and 
several of the petty courts in Germany ; and chal- 
lenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of 
trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their 
inferiority.— After many overthrows on the part of 
the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert 
Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present wor- 
thy baronet of that name ; who, after three days' and 
three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian un- 
der the table, 

jinrf blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, 
afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of 
Glenriddel, who had marred a sister of Sir Waller's. 
On Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, 
the Whistle was once more contended for, as related 
in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of 
Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lin- 
eal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, 
who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had 
continued ; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq. of Craig- 
darroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert ; 
which last gentleman carried off the hard-won hon- 
ors of the field. 



I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 
king, [ring. 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall 

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Finga 1, 

The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 

" This Whistle's your challenge — to Scotland 

get o'er, [more !" 

And drink them to hell, Sir I or ne'er see me 

♦See Ossian's Carric-thura. 



5Q 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
What champions ventured, what champions fell ; 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 
Scaur, 
Unmatched at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert victorious, the trophy has gain'd; 
Which now in his house for ages re main' d ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renewed. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of 
flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth and law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skilTd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as 
oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel re- 
plies. 
Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times 
o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 

friend, 
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the 

field. 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, lovely 

dame. 

♦ See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides 



A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply. 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they 
were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phcebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core. 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite for 

lorn. 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly would wage ; 
A high- ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; 

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 
tend? 

Though fate said — a hero should perish in 
light ; 

So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the 
knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in 
drink : — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall 

sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
lime ! 

" Thy line, which has struggled for Freedom 

with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of 

day!" 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF POETRY, 



EXTRACTED 



FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS; 

SONGS, 

COMPOSED FOR THE MUSICAL PUBLICATIONS OF MESSRS. THOMSON AND JOHNSON, 

WITH ADDITIONAL PIECES. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 
A BROTHER POET.* 
AULD NEEBOR — 

I'm three times doubly o''er your debtor, 
For your au!d-farratit, friendly Iftter ; 
Tho' I maun say'l, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

0' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink. 

Riven' the words to gar them clink ; 

Whyles dais't wi' love, whyles dais't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think 

Craw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhvmin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to give us joy or grievin' : 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there. 
Then, hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievm'. 

An' fash nae mair. 

♦This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, pub- 
lished at Kilmarnock, 1789. 



Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure. 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

'I'hc Muse, poor hizzie 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie ; 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



THE LASS OF BALLOOHMYLE, 

'TwAS eve — the dewy fields were green. 

On ev'ry blade the pearls hang ; 
The zephyr wanion'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seem'd the while, 
Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whispered, passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild ; 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she docs compile ; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass of Ballochmyle. 

0, had she been a country maid. 
And I the happy country swain, 

Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 
That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
57 



58 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Thro* weary winter's wind and rain, 
With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 

And nightly to my bosom strain 
The bonnie lass of Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honors lofty shine; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine; 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And ev'ry day have joys divine, 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 
That lov'st to greet the early morn, 



Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was 1 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 



Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface. 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wildwoods, thickening green, 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray. 
Till too, too soon the glowing west. 

Proclaimed the speed of wmged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but th' impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



LINES ON 

AN INTERVIEW WITH LOKD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at drunken writer^ s feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honor'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum. 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 
Up higher yet my bonnet ; 



An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 
But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r, 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr. 

And how he star'd and stammer'd. 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks. 
An' stumpan' on his ploughman shanks. 

He in the parlor hammer' d. 
******** 

I sliding shelter'd in a nook. 
An' at his Lordship steal' t a look 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good-sense and social glee. 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as well's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care. 
To meet with noble, youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ON A YOUNG LADY, 

Residing on the banks of the small river Devon, in 
Clackmannanshire, but whose infant years were 
spent in Ayrshire. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 

Devon, [blooming fair ; 

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the 

Devon, 

W^as once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ; 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wings as ye usher the dawn I 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 
And England triumphant display her proud 
rose : 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys. 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flows. 



CASTLE GORDON. 
I. 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 

Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 



BURNS' POEMS 



59 



I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks, by Castle Gordon. 
II. 
Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading Irom the burning ray ; 

Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way. 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storms, by Castle Gordon. 
III. 
Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober, pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 

She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave ; 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave. 

By bonnie Castle Gordon. * 



NAE-BODY. 

I HAE a wife o' my ain, 

I'll partake wi' nae-body; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 

I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 
I hae a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to nae-body; 
I hae naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae-body's lord, 

I'll be slave to nae-body ; 
I hae a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 
I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for nae-body; 
If nae-body care for me, 

I'll care for nae-body. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 
NAMED ECHO. 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your power of song. 

Sweet Echo is no more. 
Ye jarring, screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys ; 
Now half your din of tuneless sound 

With Echo silent lies. 



SONG.f 
Tune — " I am a man unmarried." 

O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie lass. 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast, 
I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Tal lal de rat, (f-c. 
♦ These verses our Poet composed to be sung to 
JHorag, a Highland air, of which he was extremely 
fond, 
t This was our Poet's first attempt. 



As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

And iTiony full as braw, 
But for a modest, gracefu' mien. 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess. 

Is pleasant to the e'e. 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, 

And what is best of a'. 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses ay sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly toucn the heart. 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 

Tal lal de ral, (J-c. 



INSCRIPTION 
TO THE MEMORY OF FURGUSSON. 

HERE LIES ROBERT FURGUSSON, POET. 
Bor7i, September 5th, 1751 —Died, Wth October, 1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn, nor animated bust," 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way, 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leave re- 
turning, [the vale; 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
morning, [dale : 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 

fair, 

While the lingering moments are number'd 

by care ? [singing, 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar'd, could it merit their malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these 

valleys. [find none. 

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 

But 'tis not my sufP rings thur. wretched, forlorn. 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I 
mourn : 

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial, 
Alas I can I make you no sweeter return I 



60 



BURNS' POEMS. 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. 

When Nature her great master-piece design'd, 
And framed her last best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. 
And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet. 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
The caput mortuuvi of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires, 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow; 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave 

designs, 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines: 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood. 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounced it very good ; 
But e'er she gave creating labor o'er, 
Half jest, she try'd one curious labor more : 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fat uus matter ; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; 
With arch-alacrity and conscious glee, 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thin^. and christens it — a poet. 
Creature tho' ot't the prey of care and sorrow. 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow; 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'cl and prais'd — and there the homage 

ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind. 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attached him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, [ham. 

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Gra- 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timid landmen on lite's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish, stern, absorbent stuff", 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend. 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct 's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good ? 



Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come, ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'*! — to bestow I 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human 

race : 
Come, thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; 
Friend of my life, irue patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of ray dearest hopes for future times; 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash'd, to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, 1 know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character be mine! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride subhmely 

flows. 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how iheir lofty, independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit I 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind I 
So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song as- 
cends, 
But groveling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. 
They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assumes the plough again ; 
The piebald jacket let me patch once more ; 
Oneighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that 

last shift, 
I trust meantime my boon is in thy gift : 
That plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height. 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. 
My muse mav imp her wing for some sublimer 
flight.* 



A FRAG-MENT, 
INSCRIBED TO THE EIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their 

white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- 
tion — 
I sing; If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose 
glory 
At once may illustrate and honor my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ; 

* Tliis is our Poet's first epistle to Graham of Fin- 
try. It is not equal to the second ; but it contains too 
much of the characteristic vigor of its author to l)e sup- 
pressed. A little more knowledge of natural history, 
or of chemistry, was wanted to enable hira to execute 
the original conception correctly. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



61 



A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he 

looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 
labors, [up its neighbors : 

That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you 
know him ? [show him. 

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 
One trifling, particular truth, should have miss'd 

him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe. 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there's more in 

the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd 

Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother. 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



TO DR. BLACLOOK. 

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789. 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit juntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'U do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south I 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald myself by word o' mouth. 

He'd tak my letter; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth. 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'do' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body.* 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 

Ye'U now disdain me. 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 
Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies, 
Whaby Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbics. 

Ye ken, ye ken, 

♦ Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland, and 
of various other works. 



That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Maiig sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursel, my heart right proud is, 

I need na vaunt. 
But I'll sned besoms — ihraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man I 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy lire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckle. 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for ay. 

Robert Burns. 



PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE ELLISLAND, ON NEW- 
YEAR-DAY EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city, [pity: 

That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new-year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage, grave ancient cough'd, and bade me 

say, 
" You're one year older this important day," 
I( wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the 

question ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink. 
He bade me on you press this one word — 

"think!" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope 
and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way! 
He bids you mind; amid your thoughtless rattle. 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch 

him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 



62 



BURNS' POEMS. 



That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care I 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 

brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — 

now ! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavors, 
With greatful pride we own your many favors; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY 
ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, 

OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize. 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid the accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 
In richest ore the brightest jevvel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noble work, the Godhead best is 
known. 

In vain ye flatint in summer's pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet, with thy flowery shore. 
Ye woodland choir, that chant your idle loves. 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 
Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
worth. 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth. 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
spheres : 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou lelVst us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care! 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



IMITATION 

OF AN OLD JACOBITE SOXG. 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was gray ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There 'II never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; 
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to 

blame — 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven bravv sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 
yerd : [dame — 

It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down. 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the 

same — 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Scene— a field of battle ; time of the day— evening; the 
wounded and dying of the victorious army are sup- 
posed to join in the following Song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies. 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ! [ties, 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; [know, 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the 
dark. 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honor — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save, — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O who would not rest with the brave ! 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN, 

An Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fbntenelle on 
her Benefit-Night. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings, 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Ma?i ; 
Amidst this mighty fuss, just let me mention, 
The Rights of TVoman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermixed connection, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second Right — but needless here is cau- 
tion. 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion. 
Each man of sense has it so full before him. 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. 



BURNS' POEMS 



G3 



There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days. 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

ways ; [riot ; 

Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick, up a 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. — 
Now, thank our stars I these Gothic times are 

fled ; [bred— 

Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 
dearest. 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest. 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration, 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such a host what tlinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with consti- 
tutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let majesty our first attention summon, 
Ah ! ca ira ! the Majesty of Woman I 



ADDRESS, 

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her Benefit-Night, De- 
cember 4, 179o, at the Theatre, Dumfries. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favor. 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'T would vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 
rhymes, [times : 

"T know your bent — these are no laughing 
Can you — but Miss, 1 own I have my fears, 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repen- 
tance ? 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the bronn to bear him o'er a guilty 
land?" 

1 could no more — askance the creature eye- 
ing, [ing ? 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for cry- 
rU laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall 

know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet. 

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think — so may I be a bride I 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 



Laugh in Misfortune's face- the beldam witch ! 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy 

neck — 
Or, where the beetlingclifl'o'erhangs the deep, 
Pecrest to meditate the healing leap ; 
VVoiildst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf, 
Laugh at her follies — Uiugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



SONGS. 



THE LEA -RIG. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
ril meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O, 
If thro' that glen, I gaed to thee. 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, 0, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo. 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo. 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray. 

It maks my heart sae cheery, O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



TO MARY. 
Tune— "Ewe-bughts, Marion." 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar ? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange. 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies, 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 



(yi 



BURNS' POEMS. 



O plight me your faitn, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

"We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour, and the moment o' time !* 



MY WIFE 



5 A WINSOME WEE 
THING. 



She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer, 

And niest my heart I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share oH, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blithly bear it. 
And think, my lot divine. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

O SAW ye bonnie Lesley, 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her forever ; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we. before thee ; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune—" Catharine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, 
The castle o' Montgomery, 

* This song Mr. Thomson has not adopted in his 
collection. It deserves, however,to be preserved. — E. 



Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings. 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early '. 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary. 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for ay, the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust. 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly I 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 



auld Rob Morris that wons in you glen, 
de ofauld 



There'; 

He's the king o' guid fellows and wal 

men ; [kine, 

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She 's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She 's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But oh ! she 's an heiress, auld Robin 's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and 

yard; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed. 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 

dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it would burst in my 

breast. 

O, had she been but of lower degree, 
I then might hae hop'd she wad smiPd upon me ! 
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss. 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

On blithe yule night, when we were fou, 
Ua, ha, the wooing oH, 



BURNS' POEMS, 



65 



Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd askient and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd. and Duncan pray'd; 

Ha, ha, <^c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, ^c. 
Duncan sigh'd baiih out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin ovver a linn ; 

Ha, ha, (^c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, ^c. 
SHghted love is snir to bide, 
' Ha, ha, ^c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hi/.zie die ? 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, (J-c. 

How it comes, let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And O, her een. they spak sic things ; 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace. 

Ha, ha, ^c. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith. 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 



SONG. 
Tune — •'! tiad a horse." 

POORTiTH cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 

An' 'twere na for my Jeanie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining / 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think on. 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
why, (|-f. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray, 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword ay. 
She talks of rank and fashion. 
why, (f-c. 

wha can prudence think upon. 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as T am ? 
tohy, (fc. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 
He woos his simple dearie ; 



The sillie bogles, wealth and state. 
Can never make them eerie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining ? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on Fortune's shining? 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws. 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
Andtho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 

We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth. 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure, 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



LORD GREGORY. 

MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour. 

And loud the tempest's roar; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, — 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha'. 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

\ilove it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied? 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for ay be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine I 

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven, that flashestby, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above. 

Your willing victim see I 
But spare, and pardon my fause love. 

His wrangs to heaven and me I 



MARY MORISON. 

Tune — " Bide ye yet." 

Mary, at thy window be. 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see. 

That make the miser's treasure poor; 
How bliihly wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison. 



66 



BURNS' POEMS, 



Yestreen, when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard or saw : 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 

And you the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said, amang them a', 

"Ye are na Mary Monsoii." 

Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only fault is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou will na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought unger.tle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, baud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie, [same. 
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; 

It was na the blast brought the tear to my e'e ; 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers, 
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms! 

Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring 
main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! 



THE SAME. 
As altered by'Mr. Erskine and Mr. Thomson. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame. 

Come to my bosom my am only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter-winds blew loud and caul at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e e ; 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my WiUie, 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. 

'Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slum- 
bers, 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Blow soft, ye breezes ! roll gently, ye billows ! 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, andminds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou dark-heaving main! 

May r never see it, may I never trow it. 

While dying, I think that my Willie's my ain. 

Our Poet, tcilh his usual judgment, adopted some nf 
these alterations, and rejected others. The last 
edition is as fuiloics : 

Here awa, ther*^. awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; 



Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slum- 
bers. 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows. 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh! if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show. 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true. 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide ; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by hia 
side, 

Never to rise again, oh ! — 



JESSIE. 

TuxE — " Bonnie Dundee." 

Trtje hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 

Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the N ith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair: 
To equal young Jessie, seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie, you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law ; 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger' 

Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a*. 



WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST 

WAS BLAWN. 

Air—" The Mill Mill O." 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 
And gemle peace returning, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



67 



Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widow mourning, 

I left the lines and tented field, 
Where lang I'd been a lodger, 

My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 
A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia's hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witcliing smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn. 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling I 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass. 
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 

! happy, happy may he be, 
That's dearest to thy bosom ! 

My purse is light, I've far to gang. 
And fain wad be thy lodger ; 

I've serv'd my king and country lang. 
Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me. 

And lovelier was than ever : 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed. 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot. and hamely fare. 

Ye freely shall partake it.. 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o'l. 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pale like ony lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By him who made yon sun and sky — 

By whom true love's regarded, 

1 am the man ; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair vve'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize ; 

The sodger's wealth is honor ; 
The brave, poor sodger ne'er despise. 

Nor count him as a stranger. 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 
Air — " O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack ?" 

O KE.^ ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten ? 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten ? 



She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller. 
And broken the heart o' the barley miller. 

Themiller was strapping, the miller was ruddy, 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl : — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The miller he hecht her heart leal and loving : 
The laird did address her wi' matter mair 

moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wea on the siller, it is sae prevailing; 
And wea on the love that is fix'd on a mailen ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, 
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! 



SONG. 
Tune—" Liggeram Cosh." 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae longer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy. 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy, is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow notcht but glow'r, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing I 
If she winna ease the thraws, 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass-green sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



SONG-. 

Tune—" Logan Water." 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride; 
And years sisnyne has o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs. 
The bees hum round the breathing flow'rs 
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And ev'ning's tears are tears of joy : 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faiihfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her care beguile ; 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless daya. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes ! 

O wae upon you, men o' state. 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 



68 



BURNS' POEMS. 



As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Wiihe, hame to Logan braes I 



FRAGMENT, 

IN 

witherspoon's collection 
or 
SCOTS SONGS, 
Air—" Ilughie Graham.*' 

" O GIN my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle wa', 

And I mysel a drop of dew. 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' '. 

*' Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light." 

* were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I, a bird to shelter there. 
When wearied on his little wing : 

How T wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 



BONNIE JEAN. 
There was a lass, and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen. 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And ay she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sang sae merrilie : 

The blithest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flow'rs, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad. 
The flower and pride o' a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and key. 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Ye wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

♦ These stanzas were added by Burns. 



But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e, 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 
Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ! 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 
And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge. 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was ay between them twa. 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune—" Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wings, 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high : 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song, 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flow'rs among. 

Chance led me there: 
Sweet to the opening day. 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



SONG. 

To the same tune. 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
There would I weep my woes, [roar. 
There seek my last repose. 
Till grief my eyes should close. 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie. 

Laugh o'er thy perjury. 

Then in thy bosom try, 

What peace is there ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



69 



SONG-. 



Tune— "Allan Water." 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Bonleddi ;* 
The winds were whispering thro' the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready ; 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ; 
And ay the wild- wood echoes rang — 

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 
O, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, " I'm thine forever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest. 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 
The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day, 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt the glowing heart. 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO 
YOU, MY LAD. 

O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad: 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 
But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me, 
And come, &c, 

whistle, SfC. 
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie : 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me, 
Yet look, &c, 

whistle, ^c. 
Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court na anither, tho' jokin ye be. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me, 
For fear, «fcc. 

whistle, ^c. 



SONG. 

Tune— "The mucking o' Geordie's byre." 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 

To mark the sweet flow'rs as they spring ; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHOKUS. 

Awn wV your belles and your beauties, 
They never wV her can compare ; 

Whaever has met wV my Phillis, 
Has met ici' the queen o' the fair. 

* A mountain west of Strath Allan, 3,009 feet high. 



The daisy amus'd my fond fancy. 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Thou emblem, said 1, o' my Phillis, 

For she is simplicity's child. 
Awa, (fc. 

The rose-bud 's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest ; 

How fair and how pure is the lily. 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, (J-c. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbor. 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, 4-c. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, 

When Phcebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, (fc. 

But beauty how frail and how fleeting. 
The bloom of a fire summer's day I 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
Awa, (J-c. 



SONG-. 

Air— "Cauld Kail." 

Come, let me take thee to my breast. 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur. 
And do I hear my Jeanie own. 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll count nae mair o' heaven to share | 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine forever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours. 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock hnowe, 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There Vll spend the day wi'' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa'. 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me, (J-c. 



70 



BURNS* POEMS. 



When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare. 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faiihfu' Davie. 
Meet wie, (J-c. 

"When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock hnowe, 
Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 

There 1 'II spend the day wi'' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 



SONG. 
Tune — " Oran Gaoil." 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Sever'd from thee, can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanished sail. 

Along the solitary shore. 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry. 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be I 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ? 



SONG. 

Tune—" Fee him Father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 
me ever, [me ever. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

Aften hast thou vow'd that death. Only should 
us sever ! 

Now thou'st left thy lass for ay — J maun see 
thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken, [forsaken. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

Thou canst love anither jo. While my heart is 

breaking. [waken, Jamie, 

Soon my weary een I'll close — Never mair to 

Ne'er mair to waken. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And days o' lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
WeHl tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 



We twa hae ran about the braes. 

And pu' the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot. 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, 4-c. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, ^c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier. 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, i^c. 

And surely ye' 11 be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, ^c. 



BANNOCK-BURN. 
ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victory. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power, 
Edward ! chains and slavery ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law, 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
VVe will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free I 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe I 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



FAIR JENNY. 

Tune — " Saw ye my father ."' 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a- winding the course of yon river. 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure. 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay rosea, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 



BURNS' POEMS, 



71 



Fain would I hide what T fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

AH that has caiis'd this wreck, in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamur'd and fond of my anguish. 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo. 



TUNE- 



SONG. 

-"The Collier's Dochter." 



Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure. 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean. 

The breezes idly roaming, 
The clouds' uncertain motion, 

They are but types of woman. 

art thou not ashamed, 

To dote upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



SONG. 
TcNE— "The Quaker's Wife." 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 
There to throb and languish, 

Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips. 
Rich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life, when wanting love? 

Night without a morning: 
Love's the cloudless summer sun. 

Nature gay adorning. 



SONG. 

Tune— "To Janet." 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife. 
Yet I am not your slave, Sir. 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man or woman, say. 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 
Service and obedience : 



I'll desert my sov'rcign lord, 
And so, good bye allegiance ! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must. 
My last hour I'm near it : 

When you lay me in the dust 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead 
Still I'll try to daunt you ; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

"I'll wed another like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 

These verses were originally in English ; Burns baa 
bestowed on them a Scottish dress. 

Tune— "T'Ae Jl/aid's Complaint." 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face. 

Nor shape, that I admire, 
Although thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 
Something, in ilka part o' thee, 

To praise, to love, I find; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Na mair ungen'rous wish I hae. 

Nor stronger in my breast. 
Than if I canna mak thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live. 

For thee I'd bear to die. , 



BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the elen, and here the bower. 
All underneath the birchen shade; 

The village-bell has toll'd the hour, 
O what can stay my lovely maid ? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale ; 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall. 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove. 
His little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ; and art thou true ! 

O welcome dear, to love and me I 
And let us all their vows renew. 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



72 



BURNS' POEMS, 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal Hves, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the' gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of wo reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune—" O'er the Hills," &c. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego. 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove ; 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away : 
Nightly dreams, a7id thoughts by day, 
Are ay with him thaVs far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 

As weary flocks around me pant, 

Haply in this scorching sun 

My sailor's thund'ring at his gun ; 

Bullets, spare my only joy ! 

Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 

Fate, do with me what you may; 

Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas (f-c. 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with bondless pow'r ; 

As the storms the forests tear. 

And thunders rend the howling air. 

Listening to the doubling roar, 

Surging on the rocky shore. 

All I can — I weep and pray. 

For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, (J-c, 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 

And bid wild war his ravage end, 

Man with brother man to meet, 

And as a brother kindly greet : 

Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales. 

Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 

To my arms their charge convey. 

My dear lad that's far away. 
On the seas, (J-c. 



SONG. 
TuME— " Ca' the Yowes to the Knowea." 

CHORUS. 

Ca'' the yowes to the knowies, 
Ca'' them whnre the heather grows, 
Ca'' them v)hare the burnie rows. 
My bonnie dearie. 



Hark, the mavis evening song 
Soundin^ Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, ^c. 

We'll gae down by C louden side. 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide. 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the, 4-c. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers. 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flow'rs, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca'' the, 4-c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heav'n sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca'' the, tf-c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca'' the, (f-c. 



HE SAYS 



SHE LO'E 
OF A'. 



ME BEST 



Tune—" Onagh's Water-fall." 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wiling. 

Wad make a wretch forget his wo ; 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw ; 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ankle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad mak a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form, and gracefu' air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Her's are the willing chains o' love. 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo's me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley. 

The dewy eve, and rising moon ; 
Fair beaming, and streaming. 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes her sang 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love. 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' I 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SAW YE MY PHELY? 

( Quasi dicut Phi/Us.) 

Tune — " Wlien she c.-iin beii she bobbit." 

O SAW ye my dear, my Pliely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Fhely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot. 
And forever disowns thee her Willy. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



SONG-. 
Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 

How long and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

CHORUS. 

For oh, her lanely nights are long; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie; 
And oh, her widowed heart is sair, 

Thai's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar. 
How can I be but eerie ? 
For oh, 4-c. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary ! 
It was nae sae ye glinted by. 

When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh, 4-c. 



SONG. 
Tune — '• Duncan Gray." 

Let not woman e'er complain, 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain. 

Fickle man is apt to rove: 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 

Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise. 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's plan ? 

We'll be constant when we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



THE LOVER'S MORNIN& SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 
Tune— "Deil tak the Wars." 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ; 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods. 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 

Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me, my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; 

But when, in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green. 

The woods rejoic'd the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled. 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array. 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days. 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again ! 



SONG. 
Tune — "My lodging is on the rold ground." 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skillfu' string, 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed. 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 
Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 



7i 



BURNS' POEMS 



But are their hearts as light as ours, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tell's a finer tale, 
But is his heart as true ? 

These wild -wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine ; 
The courtiers' gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



SONG, 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay. 
One morning, by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHOKUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o''er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people, you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody, 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rival'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, (J-c. 



LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 

Tune — " Rothemurchie's Rant." 

CHORUS. 
Lassie wi^ the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou wt me tent the flocks. 
Wilt thou he my dearie, O ? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me. 
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 
Lassie wi\ (^c. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower, 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower. 
At sultry noon, my dearie, 0. 
Lassie wV, (f-c. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie, O. 
I-Mssie wi\ <^c. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ,• 



Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 

Lassie wi'' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
wilt thou wi^ me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie, 1 



SONG. 

Tune—" Nancy's to the Greenwood," &;c. 

Farewell thou stream, that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling : 

Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain. 

And yet in secret languish. 
To feel a fire in every vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover ; 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan. 

Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom'st me to despair, 
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 

But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 
For pity's sake, forgive me. 

The music of thy voice I heard. 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd. 

Till fears no more had sav'd me ; 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



DUETT. 

Tune—" The Sow's Tail." 

HE — O Philly, happy be that day 

When roving through the gather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away. 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 

SHE — O Willy, ay I bless the grove 

Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou did pledge the Powers above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

HE — As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE — As on the brier the budding rose 

Still richer breathes, and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 

HE — The milder sun and bluer sky, 

That crown my harvest cares wi'joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

SHE — The little swallow's wanton wing, 

Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring. 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

HE — The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



75 



Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the hps o' Philly. 
SHE — The woodbine in the dewy weet, 

When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is notcht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 
HE — Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 

And fools may tine, and knaves may win; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane. 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 
SHE — What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ! 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love 's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



SONG. 
Tunc—" Lumps o' Pudding." 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome 

thought ; 
But man is a soger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humor are coin in my pouch. 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 

A towmondo' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her 

way; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, 

or pain, [again !" 

My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, 

MY KATY? 

TrnfE— » Roy's Wife.*' 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me tJius, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know''st my achintr heart. 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 
Is this thy plighted, fond regard. 

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward^ 
An aching, broken heart, My Katy ? 
Canst thou, ^c. 
Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, ^c. 



MY NANNIE'S A"WA. 

Tune — '"■ There'll never be peace," &c. 

Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays. 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 
braes, 



While birds warble welcome in ilka green 

shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, so sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Naimie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the 
lawn, [dawn, 

The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking 
And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa', 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray. 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay : 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



FOR A' THAT, AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head, and a' that ; 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hodden gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man. though e'er sae poor. 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that. 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a behed knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray, that come it may. 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



SONG. 
Tune — "Craigie-burn Wood." 
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow, 



76 



BURNS' POEMS. 



But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flow'rs and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing f 

Fain, fain would I my grief impart. 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shall love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree. 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Let me in this ae night." 

LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity\t sake this night, 

rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hears't the winter- wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
let me in, ^c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws, 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 

let me in, (fc. 



HER ANSWER. 

O TELL na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

/ tell you now this ae ?tight. 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
And ancefor a' this ae night, 

I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo, 

1 tell you now, &-c. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo, 

/ tell you now, ^c. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day. 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 



Let witless, trusting woman say. 
How aft her fate's the same, jo, 

/ tell you now, (^c. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK 

Tune — "Where'll bonnie Ann lie7" Or, "Loch- 

Eroch Side." 

O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part. 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' wo could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! 
Or my poor heart is broken I 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL 
Tune— "Ay wakin O." 

CHORUS. 

Long, long the night, 
Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my souVs delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish? 
Long, ^c. 

Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror ; 
Slumber even I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 
Long, ^c. 

Hear me, Powr's divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
J^ng, (J-c. 



SONG. 
Tune — " Humors of Glen." 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 

reckon, [perfume, 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellov^ 

broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 
unseen : 



BURNS' POEMS 



77 



For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 
flowers, 
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

The' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny val- 
leys. 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their swset-scented woodlands that skirt the 
proud palace, [slave I 

What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 
fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders ae free as the winds of his moun- 
tains, [Jean. 
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his 



SONG. 

Tune — "Laddie, lie near me." 

'TwAS na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind 
us, [kindness. 

'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever. 
Queen shall she be in my bosom forever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest. 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH 

SONG. 

Tune — " John Anderson my jo." 

How cruel are the parents, 

Who riches only prize. 
And to the wealthy booby. 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter, 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate. 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impending ruin, 

A while her pinions tries; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer. 

And drops beneath his feet. 



SONG. 
TxmE— " Deil tak the Wars." 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compared with real passion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 



The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 

The polish'd jewel's blaze 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 
In simplicity's array ; 
Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 
O then, the heart alarming, 
And all resistless charming. 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the 
willing soul ! 
Ambition would disown 
The world's imperial crown ; 
Even Avarice would deny 
His worshiped deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



SONG. 

"Tune — This is jio my ain House." 
CHORUS. 

this is no my ain lassie. 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her e'e. 

I SEE a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place ; 
It wants, to me, the witching grace. 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, ^c. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And ay it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, ^c. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
When kind love is in the e'e. 
O this is no, 4-c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks 
It may escape the learned clerks , 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, (fc. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
SCOTTISH SONG. 

Now spring has clad the groves in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of wo ! 

The trout within yon wimplin burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart. 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 



78 



BURNS' POEMS. 



My 



life was ance that careless stream, 
That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, \vi' unrelenting beam, 
Has scorch"d my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past. 

And blighted a' my bloom. 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joys consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock, warbling, springs, 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
0' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

O had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi'' man and nature leagu'd my foes. 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ? 
The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair,'' 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



SCOTTISH SONG. 

O BONNIE was yon rosy brier. 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man; 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear! 

It shaded frae the e''enin sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 

How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower, 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



WRITTEN on a Vank leaf of a copy of his 
Poems prese7iled to a Lady, rrhom he had often 
celebrated under the name of Chloris. 

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few : 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 

Chill came the tempest's lower: 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 



Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store. 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow. 

On conscious honor's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet blest, 

These joys could he improve. 



ENGLISH SONG. 

Tune — "Let me in this ae night.'* 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, I wander here, 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 



wert thou, love, but near me, 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
wert, (f-c. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

wert, ^c. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
wert (f-c. 



SCOTTISH BALLAD. 
Tune—-' The Lothian Lassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen. 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 

r said there was naething I hated like men, [me. 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe rne. 

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en. 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean, 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying. 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, liimsel for the laird. 
And marriage aflf-hand, were his proflers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, [oflTers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less, 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



79 



He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, 

could bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week, as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the trysie o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Lest neebors might say 1 was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
Gin she had recover'd her hearin, [feet, 

And how her new slioon fit her auld shachrt 
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin. 
But heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

He begged, for Gudesake I I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, [row, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor- 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



FRAGMENT. 
Tune—" The Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy ! 
Why, why undeceive him. 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme ; 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel, 
Wake thy lover from his dream? 



HEY FOR A LA! 



WI' A TOCHER. 



Tune — " Balinamona ora." 

AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms ; 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then hey, for a lass wV a tocher, then hey for 
a lass w;t' « tocher, 

Then hey, for a lass i«j' a tocher ; the nice yel- 
low guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows. 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie greert 

knowes, [yowes. 

Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 
Then hey, (J-c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 
blrst, [sest; 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when pos- 

But the sweet yellow d;arlings, wi' Geordie im- 
prest. 

The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. 
Then hey, ^c. 



SONG. 
Tune — "Here's a health to them that's awa,hiney." 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane 1 16' e dear. 
Here' s a health to ane I lo'e dear ; [meet. 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers 
And soft as their 'parting tear — Jessy I 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee, despairing. 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy I 
Here's a health, 4"C. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
As, hopeless, T muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy I 
Here's a health, (J-c. 

I guess, by the dear angle smile, 
I guess, by the love-rolling e'e ; 

But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy! 
Here's a health, (|-c. 



TUNE- 



SONG. 
Rothermurchies' Rant." 



CHORUS. 
Fairest maid 07i Devon banks, 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do ? 

Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ?" 
Fairest maid, <^c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share; 
And by thy beauteous self, I swear. 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, (J-c. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the birks of Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays. 
Come let us spend the lightsome days, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, (J-c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blithly sing. 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing. 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, (J-c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's. 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 



Bonnie lassie, ^c, 



80 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, (J-c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee. 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, (J-c. 



TAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU 
LEAVE MEl 
TuNK— " An Gille dubh ciar-dhubh." 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

By my love, so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling. 
Howling tempests o'er me rave I 

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 
Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets, gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes, softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honor's war we strongly waged. 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend ! 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 
Tune — " Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 

The snaws the mountains cover; 
Like winter on me seizes. 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray. 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Srathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging. 

The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blithly singing, 
And every flower be springing. 



Sae I'll rejoice the lee lang day, 
When by his mighty warden. 

My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle- Gordon. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER 
m BLOWING. 
Tune — "M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament." 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. 
Fell despair my fancy seizes, 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee '." 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
Tune— " Druimion dubh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean. 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heav'n in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow. 
Yielding late to nature's lav/ ; 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 

Blithe, blithe a?id merry v>as she, 

Blithe was she but and ben : 
Blithe by the banks of Em, 

And blithe in Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blithe, (J-c. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks of Ern, 
As light 's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, 4-c. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



81 



Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae swee 

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blithe, (fc. 
The Highland hills Pve wandered wide, 

And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 
But Phemie was the blithest lass 

That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, 4.C. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK 

A KOSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk 

All on a dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head. 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest. 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. 

Awake the early morning. 
So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair. 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tents thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WIN- 
TER'S STORMS. 

TrXE — " N. Gow's Lameniaiion for Abercairny." 

Where braving angry winter's storms. 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one, beside some savage stream, 

A lovely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam. 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade. 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd. 

When first I felt their pow'r I 
The tyrant death with grim control 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY 
Tune— " Ivercald's Reel." 

CHORUS. 

Tibbie, ] hae seen the day. 
Ye would 7iae been sae shy ; 

6 



For laik o' frear ye lightly me, 
But trowth, 1 care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure : 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But feint a hair care I. 

2'ibbie, J hae, ^c. 

I doubt na, lass, but you may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er you like to try. 
Tibbie, 1 hae, 4-c. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Aliho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
Tibbie, I hae, (J-c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'U cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' drv. 
Tibbie, I hae, '^c 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense, or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 

Tibbie, I hae, (f-c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice, 
The deil a ane wad spier your price. 
Were ye as poor as I. 

Tibbie, 1 hae, (J-c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark. 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark : 
Ye need na look sae high. 
Tibbie, I hae, ^-c. 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

I'he sun of all his joy. 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tu.XE — " Seventh of November." 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 
The blissful day we twa did meet, 

Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 



82 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 
And crosses o'er the suUry line ; 

Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 
Heaven gave me more — it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
"While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below. 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
Th© iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss, — it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. 

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- 
pear, 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown ; 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
sues ; 

How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd 
in vain: 

How little of life's scanty span may remain : 

What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has 
worn ; 

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 

And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, 
how pain'd ! 

This life's not worth having with all it can give, 

For something beyond it poor man sure must 
live. 



O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL: 

Tune — " My love is lost to me." 

O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear I love thee ! 
But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 



Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
I coudna sing, I coudna say, 

How much, how dear I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth, I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And ay I muse and sing thy name, 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on. 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
Tune—" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers flow, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night, my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flow'rs, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs. 

By fountain, shaw, or green. 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOOHMYLE 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Thro' faded grove Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while. 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'U flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in wiih'ring bowers, 

Again ye'U charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel I sweet Ballochmyle. 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O'MAUT. 

O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan came to see ; 

Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night. 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are na fou, we''re na that fou, 
But just a drappie in our e'e ; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And ay well taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys, I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 
We are nafou, ^c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 
We 



are nafou, (f-c. 



Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 

Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 
He is the king amang us three I 
We are nafou, ^c. 



BURNS' POEMS 



83 



THE BLUE -EYED LASSIE. 

I GAEP a waefu' gate, yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll clearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden rniglets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white ; — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 
She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd. 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And ay the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



THE BANKS OF NITH 

Tune — " Robie Dona Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me. 

Where Commins ance had high command : 
When shall I see that honor'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

Forever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruittul vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Andersox my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent ; 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand and hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 
But what will 1 do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinkin, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen' ; 



What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? 

There's Lovvrie the laird o' Drummeller, 
'• Guid day to you, brute," he comes ben; 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware of young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd 1 maun tak him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen ? 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken, 

His likeness cam up the house staukin. 
And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen' 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

MEiKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my. kin; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie. 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune may try. 
Ye're like to the trimmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark of yon rotten tree, 
Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread. 

And ye' 11 crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE 
LAWIN. 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But w^e'll ne'er stay for faute o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine 's the rysin sun. 

Then guidvnfe coiuit the lawin, the lawin, the 

lawhi, {cos pie mair. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen' ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

2'hen guidwife count, <^c. 



84 



BURNS' POEMS. 



My coggie is a haly pool. 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink it a' yell find him out. 
Then guidwife count, &-c. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG- LASSIE DO 
WI' AN AULD MAN? 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jennie for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, ^c. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; 

He's doyli and he's dozen, his bluid it is frozen, 
O, dreary's the night with a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he can- 
kers, 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fel- 
lows : 
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity, 
I'll do my endeavor to follow her plan; 

I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, [pan. 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully I look and languish 
In that bonnie face o' thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess of this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee, (f-c. 



(O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAMI 
Tune — "The Moudiewort." 

An 0, for one and twenty. Tarn .' 
An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn! 

Til learn my kin a rattlin sang. 
An 1 saw ane and twenty. Tarn. 

'They snool me sair, and baud me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 

'But three short years will soon wheel roun'. 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam, 
An 0, for ane, (J-c. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear. 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ! 



At kith or kin T needna spier. 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An 0,for ane, ^c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam ; 

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam 1 
All 0, for ane, (f-c. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL 

O LEEZE me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel, 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite. 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest. 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel', 
Where blithe I turn my spinning wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail. 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhiies in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither lays: 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel. 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ? 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel. 

Says, I'll he wed, come o't what will; 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild. 

" O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

" It's ye hae wooers mony ane, 

And lassie, ye're but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie but, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre : 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire." 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae well his craps and kye, 

Ho has no hive to spare for me : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



85 



But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: 

Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 
For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

" O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gale, the strife is sair ; 
But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

An' willfu' folk maun hae their will; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 

O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy, 

What mair hae queens upon a throne ? 



FAIR ELIZA. 

A GAELIC AIR. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence, 

Under friendship's kind disguise. 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace forever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE POSIE. 

O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel 

be seen, [has been ; 

O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance 

But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood 

sae green. 

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the 

year. 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

without a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose when Phcebus peeps in 

view, [mou ; 

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 



The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi' its unchang- 
ing blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; 
The daisy 's for simplicty and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

gray, [day. 

Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 

But the songster's nest within the bush I win- 

na tak away ; 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star 

is near, [sae clear; 

And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her een 

The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's 

to wear, 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of 

luve, [a' above. 

And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by 

That to my latest draught o' life, the band shall 

ne'er remove, 

And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



THE BANKS O' BOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care I 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ; 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I p"ud a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree : 
But my fause luver stole my rose. 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Catharine Ogie." 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye blume sae fair. 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae fu' o' care ! 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the woodbine twine, 
And ilka bird sang o' its love, 

And sae did I o' mine. 



86 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
Frae aff its thorny tree, 

And my fause luver staw the rose, 
But left the thorn wi' me. 



SIO A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, 
Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie; 
He had a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
1 wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ana. 
The cat has twa the very color ; 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 

A whisken beard about her mou, 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, ^c. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She 's twisted right, she 's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She had a hump upon her breast. 
The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife, ^-c. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits. 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 
Her walie nieves like middin-creels. 
Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water, 
* Sic a wife as IVillie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, farewell forever. 

Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
member, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 
Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart ? 
wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my sou' 



And that 's the love I bear thee ! 
I swear and vow, that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow. 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me; 

Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 

If it winna, canna be. 
Thou for thine may choose me ; 

Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 

Lassie, let me quickly die, 

Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause, that causes my smart, 

t lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind ; 
O woman, lovely, woman fair ! 
An angel's form's faun to thy share, 
Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds, in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lap- wing, thy screaming for- 
bear, 
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 
Far mark'd wi' the courses of clear, winding rills; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys be- 
low, [blow ; 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 
There, oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how softly it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy 
clear wave 



BURNS' POEMS 



87 



Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays , 
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmurmg stream, 
P"'low gently, sweet Alton, disturb not her 

dream. 



BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth 
morning. 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowery spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. 

Old Time and nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



the 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r, and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me. 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons hne ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band. 
To gie the lad that has the land; 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 
While bees rejoice in opening flowers; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



tOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE? 

Louis, what reck T by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ? 
Dyvor, beggar louns to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law. 
And in her breast enthrone me : 

Kings and nations, swith awa ! 
Reif randies, I disown ye ! 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY 
My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 



I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody, 

Oh-hon I for somebody ! 

Oh-hey ! for somebody I 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake of somebody ! 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody I 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake of somebody ! 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNE! 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nac joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And ay the saut tear blins her e'e : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear and brethren three. 

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay. 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them Ues the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR T: 
DEATH OF HER SON 
Tune — " Finlayston House." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped. 

And pierc'd my darling's heart: 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonor'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes* 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake, 

Bewails her ravish'd young; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake. 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn were ne'er sae sweet 
As the mirk night o' December; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine. 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name, 
But I will ay remember. 
And dear, ^c. 



88 



BURNS' POEMS. 



And here's to them, that, like oursel, 

Can push about the jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 
- May a' that's guid watch o'er them ; 
And here's to them we dare na tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum. 
A7id here's to, ^c. 



O, WAT YE WHA'S INYON TOWN; 

O, WAT ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'nin sun upon ? 
The fairest dame 's in yon town, 

That e'enin sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw. 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e I 

How blest, ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year ! 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town. 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms. 

And welcome Lapland's deary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air; 

And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

O, sweet is she in yon town, 
Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ! 

A fairer than 's in yon town. 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If anger fate is sworn my foe, 

And suflfering I am doom'd to bear ; 

I careless quit aught else below. 
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart. 

And she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 

0, MY luve's like a red, red rose, 
That 's newly sprung in June : 

O, my luve 's like the melodic, 
That 's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun: 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
"While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare-thee-weel, my only luve I 
And fare-thee-weel a- while ! 



And I will come again, my luve, 
1"ho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower. 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift. 
Like fortune's favors, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane. 
His darin look had daunted me : 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy — Libertie ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 

Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear ; 

But oh, it was a tale of wo. 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter tines; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes. 



COPT 
OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 

TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

With the present of the Bard''s Picture. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, [heart, 

A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my 
eye. 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; [sigh, 

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son. 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for K — G — I most heartlyjoin, 
The Q — , and the rest of the gentry, 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

tut why of this epocha make such a fuss, 



89 



But loyalty, truce ! we'er on dangerous ground. 
Who knows how the fashions may aher ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound. 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir. as a mark of regard. 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 
And ushers the long dreary night ; [eye. 

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 
Your course to the latest is bright. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune — •' Caledonian Hunt's Delight." m 

There was once a day, but old Time then was 
young. 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line. 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di- 
vine 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign. 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it 
good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war. 

The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew: 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 
" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter 
shall rue I" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
corn ? 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 
horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 
Repeated, successive, for many long years. 

They darkcn'd the air, and they pTunder'd the 
land: 
Theirpounces were murder, and terror their cry, 

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly. 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north. 
The scourge of the seas, and th^ dread of the 
shore ; 

The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 
To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore: 

O'er countries and kingdoms the fury prevail'd. 
No arts could appease them, no arms could 
repel ; 

But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd. 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 

The Chameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. 
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife; 

Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, 
And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his 
life: 



The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- 
ver flood ; 

But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance. 
He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 

Her bright course of glory forever shall run, 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun ; 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

I'he upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypotenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them 
always. 



THE followintr Poem was written to a Gentle- 
man who had sent him a Newspaper, and off' 
cred to continue it free of Expense. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 

And t'aith to me, 'twas really new ! 

How guessed ye. Sir, what maist I wanted ? 

This mony a day I'vegrain'd and gaunted, 

To ken what PVench mischief was brewin ; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin ; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt. 

Would play anither Charles the twalt : 

If Denmark, any body spak o't; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hmgin, 

How libbet Italy was singin ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin aught amiss : 

Or how onr merry lads at hame. 

In Britam's court kept up the game : 

How Royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him I 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was liven, 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Warren Hasting's neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd. 

Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 

If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails. 

Or if he was grown oughtlins douser. 

And no a perfect kintra cooser, 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And but for you I might despaired of. 

So gratefu', back your news I send you. 

And pray, a' guid things may attend you. 

EUisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk ennerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 

'Mid a' thy favors ! 



90 



BURNS' POEMS 



Say, lassie, why thy train amangr, 
While loud the trump''s heroic clang, 
And sock and buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives, 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lea, 

Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair 

Blaw sweetly, in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane — a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou needna jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou 's forever. 

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtle twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays. 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell ; 

The sternest move. 



BATTLE OF S H E R I F F-M U I R, 
Between the Duke of Argyle and the Earl of Mar. 

" O CAM ye here the fight to shun. 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ?" 
I saw the battle, sair and tough. 
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh. 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the duds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades. 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 



They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles : 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords 

clash'd, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 

Till fey-men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs. 

And skyrin tartan trews, man. 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large. 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe. 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

" O how deil, Tam, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might. 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight; 
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut, 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, 

For fear amaist did swarf, man." 

Mv sister Kate carfi up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; 
Their left-hand general had nae skill. 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neebors' blood to spill; 
For fear by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 

And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man; 

I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right; 

But mony bid the world guid-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the tories fell. 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 



SKETCH— NEW-Y EAR'S DAY 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

This day. Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again: 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow. 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir. 

In vain assail him with their prayer, 

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press. 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds ; 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray^ 



BURNS' POEMS. 



91 



From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

Thiit grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 

And join with me a-moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight dehver ? 

" Another year is gone forever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

*' The passing moment 's all we rest on !" 

Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A tew days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of nature loudly cries, 

And mony a message from the skies, 

That something in us never dies : 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weight ; 

That future life in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone ; 

Whether as heavenly glory bright. 

Or dark as misery's woful night. — 

Since then, my honor'd, first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends ; 

Let us th' important now employ. 

And live as those that never die. 

Tho' you, with day and honors crown'd. 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse,) 

Others now claim your chief regard: 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, on the late Mr. William Smel- 
lie. Author of the Philosophy of Natural His- 
tory, and JSlemherofthe Antiquarian and Hoy- 
at Societies of Edinburgh. 

To Crochallan came, 
The old cock'd hat. the gray suriout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four^ long nights and days to shaving- 
night, 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild staring. thatch'd 
A head for thought profound and clear, un- 

match'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was bitting, r>ide. 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION for an Altar to 
Independence, at Kerrouphtry, the Seat of Mr. 
Heron ; written in summer, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resigned : 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be. nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and woship here. 



SONNET, 

ON THE 

DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESq. 
OF GLEN RIDDEL, APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more. 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul; 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant 
stole, [est roar. 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild- 
How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your 
dyes? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend ; 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier: 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" forever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



MONODY 

ON A 
LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd ! 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge late- 
ly glisten'd ! 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd! 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so lis- 
ten'dl 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await; 

From friendship and dearest aflection remov'd; 
How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. 

Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues. I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear ; 
But come, ail ye ofi'spring of folly so true. 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly 
flower. 
We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 
For none e'er approach'd her but ru'd the rash 
deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; [lay ; 

There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 



THE EPITAPH, 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom, denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness, denied her esteem. 



92 



BURNS' POEMS. 



ANSWER to a Mandate sent by the Surveyor 
of the Wi7idows, Carriages, (^c, to each Par- 
mer, ordering him to send a signed List of his 
Horses, Servants, Wheel- Carriages, S/-c.,and 
whether he was a married Man or a Bachelor, 
and what Children they had. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carls, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. 
My hand afore, a guid auld has-been, 
And wight and willfu' a' his days seen ; 
My hafid a hin, a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft hae borne me safe frae Killie, 
And your old borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur a hin, a guid gray beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie, 
For-by a cowt, of cowts the wale. 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel-carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new ; 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsman ane, a thrasher t'other, 
Wee Davoc hands the nowte in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly. 
And often labor them completely, 
And ay on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly. 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,) 
He'll screed you off effectual calling , 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station. 
Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is. 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than well contented. 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face. 
Enough of aught ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither, 
By the L — d, ye'se get them a' thegither I 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking. 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paddle. 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thanked ! 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date is under noted ; 
Then know, all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

Robert Burns. 
Mossgiel, 22dFeb. 1786. 



SONG. 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my Highland lassie^ O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, 0, 
I set me down wi'' right good will ; 
To sing my Highland lassie, 0. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, ^c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I love my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, (f-c. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change. 
For her bosom burns with honor's glow, 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Witfii?i the glen, (fc. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, 0. 
Within the glen, ^c. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honor's band ! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Farewell, the glen sae bushy, ! 
Farewell, the plain sae rushy, ! 
To other lands I now must go. 
To sing my Highla?id lassie, ! 



I MPROMTU, 

ON MRS. 's BIRTHDAY, 

NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

Old Winter, with his frosty beard. 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; 
What have I done, of all the year. 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 
To counterbalance all this evil ; 
Give me, and I've no more to say, 
Give me Maria's natal day ! 
That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 
Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me. 
'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 
And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY, 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 
On yonder lea, on yonder lea; 



BURNS' POEMS 



93 



My plaidie to the angry airt, 

rd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee ; 

Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 

Thy bield should be niy bosom. 
To share it a', to share it a\ 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou were there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
The brightest jewel in my crown, 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 



MISS JESSY 



-, DUMFRIES 



With Books which the Bard presented her. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And with them take the poet's prayer; 
That fate may in her fairest page. 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enroll thy name, 
With native worth and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



SONNET, written on the 25th of Ja?iuary, 1193, 
the Birth-day of the Author, on hearing a 
Thrush si7ig in a morni7ig Walk. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough : 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign. 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 
Sits meek Content, with light unanxious 
heart, [part, 

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee. Author of this opening day! 

I'hou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 
skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite 
with thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, to Mr. .S**E, on refusing to 
Dine with him. after having been promised the 
first of Company, and the first of Cookery, \7th 
December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not. 
And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit. 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



To Mr. S**E, with a Present of a Dozen of 
Porter. 

O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind. 

Or hops the flavor of thy wit, 
'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S**e were lit. 
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 

Tune — " Push about the Jorum." 
April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 

Then let the loons beware. Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And CrifTel sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

Fall de rail, (J-c. 

let us not, like snarling tykes. 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon, 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
Fall de rail, ^c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loan 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it ! 

Fall de rail, ^c. 

The wretch that would a tyrant own. 

And the wretch his true-born brother. 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damn'd together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 

Fall de rail, ^c. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OP 
EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches, 
Are at it, skelpin, jig and reel. 

In my poor pouches. 

T modestly fu' fain wad hint it. 
That one pound one, I sairly want it : 
If wi' the hizzie down you sent it. 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood duntcd, 

I'd bear 't in mind. 



94 



BURNS' POEMS 



So may the auld year gang out moaning, 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket. 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health I've got a share o't, 
And by that life. I'm promis'd mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll take a care o't 

A tentier way ; 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE. 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, 

DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honor'd colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah I now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Paruaasus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; 

And fortune favor worth and merit. 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh I flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still. 
Ay wavering like the willow wicker 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne whip ! his tail ye'U ne'er cast saut on. 

He's off like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair. 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 
To put us daft ; 



Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie aft bizzes by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh. 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon, heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs. 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE 

My curse upon thy venom/d stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes ; 
Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan : 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Ay mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 
[11 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools. 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools. 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' I 

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel. 
That gars the notes of discord ^queel. 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Tooth-ache ! 



SONG. 
Tune—" Morag." 

O wHA is she that lo'es me 
And has my heart a-keeping ? 



BURNS' POEMS. 



05 



O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 



that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
thaVs the queen o' womankind, 

And ne'^er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shah meet a lassie. 

In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie. 
Ere while thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
that's, ^c. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 
But her by thee is slighted, 
And thou art all delighted. 
thaVs, ^c. 

If thou hast met this fpir one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted. 

If every other fair one, 

But her thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted, — 
that's, d^c. 



SONG. 

Jockey's ta''en the parting kiss. 
O'er the mountains he is gane ; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 
Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain ; 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw. 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 

He will think on her he loves. 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jocky's heart is still at hame. 



SONG. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind. 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air. 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art ; 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway. 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
The generous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look, that rage disarms. 
These are all immortal charms. 



WRITTEN in a Wrapper e7iclosinfr a Lettei 
to Capt. Grose, to be Itfl with Mr. Cardonnel, 
Antiquarian. 

Tune — " Sir John Malcolm." 

Ken ye aught o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo, 4- oso, 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

IflOy (^ ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

J go.. 4* ogo, 
And eaten like a weather-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, (^ ago. 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo, (^ago. 
As for the deil, he daur na steer him. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo, (^ ago. 
Which will oblige your numble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo, ^ ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo. (^ ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM Esq., 
OF FINTRA, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOR. 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
P'riend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns. 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres. 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest. 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of -Truth : 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



96 



BURNS' POEMS. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O THOU, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want I 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please thee. Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied 

Lord, bless us with content ! 
Ame7i ! 



To my dear and much honored Friend, Mrs. 

Dunlop, of Dunlop. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress with horrors arming. 
Thou bast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the woodlark charms the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest. 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure. 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of wo. 



A VERSE composed and repeated by Burns to 
the Master of the House, on taking leave at a 
Place in the Highlands, where he hadbeenhoS' 
pitably entertained. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come ; 

In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more. 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE. 

Scenes of wo, and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo, and scenes of pleasure. 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming, 
Fare-thee-weel before I gang ! 

Bonny Doon, whare early roaming, 
First I weav'd the rustic sang ! 

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying. 
First inthrall'd this heart o' mine, 

There the safest sweets enjoying, — 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne ' 

Friends, so near my bosom ever, 
Ye hae rendered moments dear; 

But, alas ! when forc'd to sever. 
Then the stroke, O, how severe ! 

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, 

Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me I 
Could I think I did deserve it, 

How much happier would I be ! 

Scenes of wo, and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo, and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY, 



SELECTED FROM 



THE KELIQUES OF ROBERT BURNS, 



FIRST PUBLISHED BY R. H. CROMEK. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 
I. 

AuLD chuckle Reekie's* sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel burnisht crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie basket nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

WiUie's awa ! 

II. 

Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ! 
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, 

And trig and braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 
Willie's awa I 

III. 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd, 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 

Willie's awa ! 

IV. 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding schools, 
May sprout hke simmer pudduck-stools. 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa ! 

V. ^ 

The brethren o' the Commerce~haumert 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamor ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 
Amang them a' ; 

1 fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa I 

VI. 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets, pour,t 

•Edinburgh. 

+ The Chamber of Commerce ofEdinburgh, of which 
Mr. C. was Secretary. 

t Many literary gentlemen were accustom'd to meet 
ai Mr. C— 's house at breakfast. 



And toothy critics by the score. 

In bloody raw ! 

The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa I 

VII 

Now worthy G*****y's latin face, 
T****r's and G*********'s modest grace ; 
M'K****e, S****t, such a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

VIII. 
Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ; 
Griefs gien his heart an unco kickin, 

Willie's awa ! 

IX. 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, 
And Calvin's fock are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa! 



Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw; 
But every joy and plf^asure's fled, 

Willie's awa! 

XI. 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee ! Willie Creech, 

The' far awa ! 

XII. 

May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him . 
Until a pow as auld's Mcthusalem ! 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa ! 

97 



98 



BURNS' POEMS. 



LIBERTY. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace lies! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. 
Nor give the coward secret breath — 

Is this the power in freedom's war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye, which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless 
age. 



ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.* 

Now Robin lies in his last lair. 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungery stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him ; 
Except the moment that they crusht him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lasht 'em. 

And thought it sport. — 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

■Wet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
iBut tell him, he was learn'd and dark. 

Ye roos'd him then ! 



COMIN THRO' THE RYE, 

CoMiN thro' the rye, poor body, 

Comin thro' the rye, 
tShe draigl't a' her petticoatie 
'Comin thro' the rye. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet. poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry : 
She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the rye, 
G-in a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the glen, 
Ginti body kiss a body, 

Need the warld ken. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 

*Jiuisseaux — a play on his own name 



THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES.* 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song. 
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade every 
throng, [quack, 

With Craken, the attorney, and Mundell the 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 



BURNS — Extempore. 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt ; 
But where is your shield from the dart of con- 
tempt ? 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. 13tk, 1785. 

GuiD speed an' furder to you, Johnie, 

Guid health, hale ban's, and weather bonnie ; 

Now when ye're nickan down fu' cannie 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brandy 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin at it. 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

Sae my old stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark. 
An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it. 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men. 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better. 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills. 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives and whiskie stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, Sir, I wmna quat it, 

An' if ye mak objections at it. 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' usquebae we've wat it. 

It winna break. 

* At this period of our Poet's life, when political ani- 
mosity was made the ground of private quarrel, the 
above foolish verses were sent as an attack on Burns 
and his friends for their political opinions. They were 
written by some member of a club styling: themselves 
the Loyal Natives of Dumfries, or rather by the united 
genius of that club, which was more distinguished for 
drunken loyalty, than either for respectability or poeti- 
cal talent. The verses were handed over the table to 
Burns at a convivial meeting, and he instantly endors- 
ed the subjoined reply. — Relives, p. 168. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



99 



But if the beast and branks be spar'd, 
Til! kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard, 

An' theckit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspiring aqua-vitae 

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty. 

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
An' now the sun keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter, 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste. 

Yours, Rab the Ranter. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, 
WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. \7th, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r, 
To shun the bitter blaudin show'r. 
Or in gulravage rinnin scow'r 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it. 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy. 
Thai I, a simple, kintra bardie. 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

VVha, if they ken me. 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse h-U upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces, 
Their three mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun,* miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honor in his breast. 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him ; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest [him ? 

What way they 've use't 

See him.t the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word an' deed. 
An' shall his fame an' honor bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

* Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

t The poet has iiuroduced the two first lines of the 
Stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton. 



O Pope, had I thy satire's darts, 
To give the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing T should be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be. 
But twenty times, I rather would be 

An' Atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colors hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause. 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace an' truth. 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin streight. 

All hail, Religion! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train. 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those. 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs. 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit. 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbytereal bound 
A candid, lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as christians too renown'd, 

An' manly preachers. 



Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gies you honor) 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 

An' if impertinent I've been. 

Impute it not, good Sir, in ane [ye, 

Wha.se heart ne'er wrang'd 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



100 



BURNS' POEMS. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 
MAUCHLINE. 

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.) 

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786. 

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty, 

To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak. the tither day, 

An' wad hae don't aff han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faiih I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin out auld crummie's nicks, 
An' tellin lies about them ; 
As lieve then, I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. 
An' bout a house that's rude an' rough, 
The boy might learn to swear; 
But then wi' you, he'll sae be taught. 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na ony fear. 
Ye' 11 catechize him every quirk. 

An' shore him well wi' hell; 

An' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Ay when ye gang yoursel, 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin Friday, 
Then please. Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honor I hae gien. 
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 
To meet the Warld''s worm, 
To try to get the twa to gree. 
An' name the airles an' the fee, 

In legal mode an' form ; 
I ken he weel a Snick can draw. 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a'. 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you, an' praise you, 

Ye ken your Laureat scorns ; 
The prayer still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



TO MR. M'ADAM, 
OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

In answer to an obliging Letter he sent in the 
commencement of my Poetic Career. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wha taks notice o' the bard ! 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw. 
The senseless, gawky million ; 

* Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline ; a dealer in 
cows. It was his common practice to cut the nicks 
or markings from the horns of cattle, to disguise their 
age. — He was an artful, trick-contriving character; 
hence he is called a Snick-drawer. In the Poet's ".4rf- 
dress to the Deil,'''' he styles that august personage an 
auid, snick'drawins dog 1 — Rdiques, p. 397. 



I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel. 
To grant your high protection : 

A great man's smile ye ken fu' well, 
Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho', by his banes, wha in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 

On my ain legs, thro' dirt an' dub, 
I independent stand ay. — 

And when those legs to guid, warm kail, 
Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 
And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' mony flow'ry simmers! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith, — 

I'm tald the're loosome kimmers! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard 

A credit to his country. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 
GLENRIDDEL. 

(Extempore Lines on returning a Newspaper.) 
EUisland, Blonday Evening. 

Your news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and through. Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home news or foreign, 

No murder or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and 
hewers. 

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none. Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is, to tell all your good- 
ness, 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God T had one like a beam of the sun. 

And then all the world. Sir, should know it 1 



TERRAUGHTY,* 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran chief! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf, 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief. 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou metes threescore eleven. 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven, 
(The second sight, ye ken is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

* Mr. Maiwell, of Terraughty, near DumfrioK 



BURNS' POEMS. 



101 



If envious buckies view wi' sorrow, 

Thy lengthened days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure. — 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' morning blithe and e'enings funny, 

Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye : 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye; 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye. 

While Burns they ca' me. 



TO A LADY, 
With a Present of a Pair of Drinking- Glasses. 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses, — 

And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast — 

" The whole of human kind .'" 

"To those who love us /" — second fill; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us ! 

A third — " to thee arid me, love .'" 



THE VOWELS. 



A TALE. 



•TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are 

plied, 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapor throws, 
And cruelty directs the thickenmg blows ; 
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 
In all his pedagogic powers elate. 
His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 
And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight. 
But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on nis way, 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous grace 
The justling tears ran down his honest face : 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his 

own. 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound. 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound: 
And next, the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assing'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock' d the groaning vowel to the ground ! 



In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing wo ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spam the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art : 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his ri^ht, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



SKETCH* 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets. 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, — 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive V amour ; 
So travel'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell. 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



SCOTS PROLOGUE, 

For Mr. Sutherland'' s Benefit Night, Dumfries. 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comin ? 
Why is outlandish stuff" sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when im- 
ported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Room and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. — 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how, hapless, fell? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ? 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword, 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 

And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrenclrd his dear country from the jaws of 

ruin ? 
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene. 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 

*This sketch seems to be one of a series, intended 
for a projected work, under tlie tittle of'I'Ae Poet's 
Progress.'''' This character was sent as a specimen, 
accompanied by a letter, to Professor Dugald Stervart., 
in wliich it is thus noticed : '"The fragment beginning 
A little, upright, pert. tart, ^c, I have not shown to any 
man living, till I now send it to you. It forms the 
postulala, the axioms, the definition of a character, 
which, if it appear at all, shall bo placed in a variety 
of lights. This particular part I send you merely as a 
sample of my hand at portrait sketching." 



102 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, rutliless, mad Rebellion's 

arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age: 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads I 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the hand; 
Not only here, but patronise, befriend them. 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them. 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their 

best ! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack. 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
"Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle 

here ?" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We have the honor to belong to you ! 
We're your own bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike, — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 4 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but 
thanks. 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION 

ON BEIN& 
APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels 

Och, ho I the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels 

But — what '11 ye say ! 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes ! 



On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord G. 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ? 

Flit G , and find 

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 



On the Same. 

No Stewart art thou G , 

The Stewarts all were brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were hnt fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 



On the Same. 

Bri&ht ran thy line, O G , 

Thro' many a far fam'd sire ! 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire. 



To the Same, on the Author being threatened 
with his Rese7ilment. 

Spare me thy vengeance, G ■, 

In quiet let me live: 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

a new ballad. 
TuNK — " The Dragon of Wanlley.* 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw, 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job- 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. — 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore. 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment tenth remember'd. — 
Yet simple Bob the victory got. 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shows that heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil p — s in the fire. — 

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy. 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of Merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see. 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet. 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. — 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF 
SESSION. 

Tune — " Gillicrankie." 

LORD A TE. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 



BURNS' POEMS, 



103 



He gaped for 't, he graped for 't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



MR. ER — NE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man ; 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bendi sae wise, lift up their eyes 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



VERSES TO J. RANKEN. 

\The Person to whom his Poem on shooting the 
Patridge is addressed, while Ranken occupied 
the Farm of Adamhill, in Ayrshire.] 

Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station. 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles* in a halter : 
Asham'd himself to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glow'rin at the bitches, 
" By G-d, I'll not be seen behint them. 
Nor 'mang the sp'rtual core present them, 
Without, at least ae honest man, 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L — d G-d !" quoth he, " I have it now, 
There's just the man I want, in faith," 
And quickly stoppet Ranken's breath. 



On hearing that there was Falsehood in the Rev. 
Dr. B 's very Looks. 

That there is falsehood in his looks, 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave— 

And sure they do not lie. 



On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire. 

Here lie Willie M — hie's banes, 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schulin of your weans ; 

For clever Deils he'll mak em ! 



ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

(a parody on robin ADAIR.) 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier, 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 

♦The word wintle, denotes sudden and involuntary 
motion. In the ludicrous sense in which it is here ap- 
plied, it may be admirahly translated by the vulgar 
London expression of Dancing upon nothing. 



How does Dampiere do ? 

Ay, and Bournonvilie too ? [ourier ? 

Why did they not come along with you, Dum- 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier,— 
I will fight France with you, Dumourier; — 
I will fight F'rance with you, 
I will tak my chance with you ; 
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dum- 
ourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier, 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about. 

Till freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be d-mned no doubt — Dumourier. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 
R a sketch. 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn. 
E'en let them die — for that they're born : 
But oh ! prodigious to reflect ! 
ATowmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck I 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space. 
What dire events hae taken place I 
Of what enjoyment thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire 's tint a head. 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie 's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin, 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. — 

Ye ministers, come mount the poupet, 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupit. 
For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you weel, 
An' gied you a' baith gear and meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een. 
For some o' you hae tin a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowf and dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itself does cry. 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 
An' no o'er auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, 
Thou now hast got thy daddy's chair. 

Nae hand-cuff"d, mizzl'd, hnp-shackVd Regent, 
But, like himsel, a fiill, free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ; 
As muckle belter as you can. 

January 1, 1789. 



VERSES 

Wrifte7i under the Portrait of Fergusson, the 
Poet, in a copy of that author'' s works present- 
ed to a young Lady in Edi?iburgh, March 19, 

1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd. 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ' 



104 



B URNS' POEMS 



thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



SONGS 



UP IN THE MORNING- EARLY.* 

Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morni?ig early ; 
When a' the hills are covered wV snaw, 

Vm sire iVs winter fairly. 

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill 1 hear the blast, — 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the mor?iing, <^c. 



SONG. 

I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE 
SPRINGING.t 

1 dream'd I lay where flowers were springing, 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream ; 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning. 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ; 
But lang e'er noon, loud tempests storming, 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceived me, 

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



SONG-.t 

BEWARE o' BONNIE ANN. 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face, sae fu' o' grace. 

You heart she will trepan. 

* The chorus is old. 

t These two stanzas I composed when I was seven- 
teen, and are among the oldest of my printed pieces. — 
Burns'' Religues, p. 242. 

1 1 composed this song out of compliment to Mi-ss 
Ann Masterton. the daughter of my friend Allan Mas- 
terton, the author of the air of Strathallan's Lament, 
and two or three others in this work. — Burns' Rdiques. 
p. 266. 



Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist. 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red ye a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



SONG-. 

MY BONNIE MARY.* 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie , 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore, 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



SONG. 

there's a youth in this CITY.t 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great 
pity, 
That he from our lasses should wander awa'; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favor'd with a', 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the 
slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin; 
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted 
and braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. — 
There's Meg wi' the mailen, that fain wad a 
haen him. 
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha' ; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his 
fancy, 
But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a. 

*This air is Oswald's; the first half-stanza of th<i 
song is old 

t This air is claimed by Niel Gow, who calls it his 
lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of th^ 



sons 



is old. 



BURNS' POEMS 



105 



SONG. 

MY heart's in the HIGHLANDS.* 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands. farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valor, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands forever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 

snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here. 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



SONG.t 

THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE o't. 

WHA my babie-clouts will buy ? 
Wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

Wha will own he did the faut ? 
Wha will buy my groanin-maut ? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



SONG, 

I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.t 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve ; 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak, thy heart could muve. 

I do^confess thee sweet ; but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets. 

Thy favors are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

*The first half-stanza is old. 

I I composed ihis soii°r pretty parly in life, and sent 
it to a young girl, a very particular ac()uainlance of 
mine, who was at that time under a cloud. — Burns' 
Relique':, p. 273. 

t This song is altered from a poem by Sir Rob. Ayton, 
private secretary to Mary and Anne,queensofScotland. 
The poem is lo be Ibund in .lames Watson's Collec- 
tion of Scots Poems, the earliest collection printed in 
Scotland. I think that I have improved the simplicity 
o\' the sentimenis, by giving them a Scots dress. — 
Burns^ Reliques, p. 292. 



See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy, 

How sune it tines its scent and hue 
When pu'd and worn a common toy 

Sic fate e'er lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ; 

Yet sune thou shall be thrown aside, 
Like ony common weed and vile. 



SONG.* 
Tune — " Craigie-burn Wood."t 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 
And to be lying beyond thee, 

sweetly, soundly, wed may he sleep, 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn- 
wood, 
And blithly awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn- 
wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
BeyoJid thee, (J-c. 

I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 

1 hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me. 

While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, ^c. 

I canna tell, I maunna tell, 

I dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond thee, ^c. 

I see thee gracefu' straight and tall, 

I see thee sweet and bonnie. 
But oh, what will my tonnents be, 

If thou refuse thy johnie ! 
Beyond thee, ^c. 

To see thee in anither's arms, 

In love to lie and languish, 
■•Twad be my dead, that will be seen. 

My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 
Beyond thee, <$-c. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 

Say thou lo'es nane before me ; 
And a' my days o' life to come 

I'll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, ^c. 



SONG. 

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

YoN wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
Thatnursein their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 

*It is remarkable of this place, that it is the confine 
of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland 
music (so I'ar as from the title, words, kc. we can lo- 
calize it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, near 
MolTat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have 
scarcely one slow air of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. 
Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss 
Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. The young 
lady was born at Craigie-burn-wood. The chorus is 
part of an old foolish ballad. — Burns' Reliques, p. 284. 

t The chorus is old.— Another copy of this will he 
found, ante p. lUi. 



106 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 
heather to feed, [his reed. 

And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 
Where the grouse, (^c. 

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny 
shores, [moors ; 

To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy 
For there, by a lanely, and sequestered stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 

Amang the wild mountains shdl still be my 
path, [strath ; 

Ilk stream foaming down iis ain green, narrow 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang 1 rove, 
While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' 
love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
O' nice education but sma" is her share : 
Ker parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie, because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize. 
In her amor of glances, and blushes, and sighs ; 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her 

darts. 
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
ling e'e, 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 

And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in 
her arms, 

O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms I 



SONG. 
WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR ? 

Wha is that at my bower door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay ; 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Before the morn ye' II work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in quo' Findlay ; 
Ye'U keep me waukin wi' your din; 

Indeed will I, quo Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay ? 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 
I fear ye'U bide till break o' day; 

Indeed will L quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain, 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; 
I dread ye'U learn the gate again; 

Indeed will I, ^uo' Findlay ; 
What may pass within this bower. 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal to your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! 



SONG.* 

Tune—" The Weaver and his ShuUle, O." 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick bor- 
der, O, 

And carefully he bred me in decency and or- 
der, O ; 

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er 
a farthing, O, 

For without an honest, manly heart, no man was 
worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did deter- 
mine, O, 

Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be 
great was charming, O ; 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet 
n»y education, O ; 

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situ- 
ation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted for- 
tune's favor, O ; 

Some cause unseen, still stept between, to frus- 
trate each endeavor, O ; 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; some- 
times by friends forsaken, O, 

And when my hope was at the top, I still was 
worst mistaken, O. 

Then sore harassed, and tir'd at last, with for- 
tune's vain delusion, 0, 

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came 
to this conclusion, O, 

The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good 
or ill untried, O ; 

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so 
I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view, had I, nor person 

to befriend me, O, 
So I must toil, and sweat, and broil, and labor 

to sustain me, O ; 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my fa- 

ther bred me early, O ; 
For one, he said, to labor bred, was a match for 

fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life 
I'm doom'd to wander, O, 

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting 
slumber, O ; 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might 
breed me pain and sorrow, O, 

I live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to- 
morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch 

in a palace, O, 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with 

all her wonted malice, ; 
I make, indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can 

make it farther, O ; 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much 

regard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labor I earn a little 

money, O, ' 

Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally 
upon me, O ; 

*This song is wild rliapsody, miserably deficient in 
versificaiion ; hut as ihe sentiments are the genuine 
feelmgsol'my heart, for that reason I have a particular 
pleasure in conning it over.^^urns' Rtliq^ccs, p. 3*29. 



BURNS' POEMS 



107 



Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good- 

natur'd tolly, O : 
But come what will, Tve sworn it still, I'll ne'er 

be melancholy, O. 

All you, who follow wealth and power with un- 
remitting ardor, O, 

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave 
your view the farther, O ; 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations 
to adore you, O, 

A cheerful, honest-hearted clown, I will prefer 
before you, O. 



SONG. 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Tho' mountains frown, and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



SONG. 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever I 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest . 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, 
Warring sigh and groans I'll wage thee. 



SONG. 

NOW BANK an' BRAE ARE CLAITH'd IN GREEN. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring ; 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream, 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee. 
There catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e I 



The child wha boasts o' warld's wealth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie mc mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her the lassie dear to nie. 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



SONG. 

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. 

O HOW can I be blithe and glad. 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best, 
Is o'er the hills and far awa ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw; 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e. 
To think on him that's far awa 

My father pat me frae his door. 

My friends they hae disown'd me a', 

But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gave to me, 
And silken snoods he gave me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass. 

And spring will deed the birken-shaw ; 

And my sweet babie will be born. 
And he'll come hame that's far awa. 



SWEETEST MAY. 

Altered from Allan Ramsay's song : — 

"Heres my ttmmb, I'll ne'er beguile ye." 

Tea Table Miscellany, vol. i. p. 70. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee ; 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it ; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 
Proof o' shot to birth or money. 
Not the wealthy, but the bonnie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
In love's silken band can bind it. 



SONG. 
I'll AY ca' in by yon town. 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again ; 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she, my fairest, faithfu' lass. 
And stowlins we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree, 

When trystin-time* draws near again ; 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she's doubly dear again ! 

* Trystin-time— iht lime of appointment. 



108 



BURNS' POEMS 



SONG. 

WHISTLE o'er the LAVE o't. 

First when Maggy was my care. 
Heav'n, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair— 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child — 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd : 
Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
I care na how few may see ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
What I wish, were maggot's meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun seeH— 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



SONG. 

YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue, 

He roos'd my waist sae gently sma ; 
An' ay my heart came to my mou. 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain. 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw 
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca', 
An' ay the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he taks me a' : 
And ay he vows he'll be my ain, 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



SONG. 

M'rHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
Tune — " M'Pherson's Lament." 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong. 

The wretch's destinie ! 
M'Pherson's time will not be long, 

On yonder gallows tree. 

Sae ranlingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He "played a spring and danc'^d it round, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath ? — 

On mony a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Sae rantingly, <^c. 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly, (J-c. 



I've liv'd a lite of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart, I must depart, 

And not avenged be. 

Sae rantingly, (J-c. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright. 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
.Sae rantingly, (J-c. 



SONG 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend I 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be of care, man? 
Then catch the moments as they fly. 

And use them as ye ought, man : — 
Believe me, happiness is shy. 

And comes not ay when sought, man. 



SONG. 
Tune — " Braes o' Balquhidder.* 

ril kiss thee yet, yet, 

An'' ril kiss thee o'^er again. 
An' ril kiss thee yet, yet. 

My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, O ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne. 

Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 
ril kiss thee, (f-c. 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O ; 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share. 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O. 
ril kiss thee, (^c. 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine forever, O ; 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, O. 
ril kiss thee, <SfC. 



SONG. 

Tune—" If he be a Butcher neat and trim." 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weelfar'd face, 
And the glancin of her sparklin een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn, 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash. 
That grows the cowslip braes between. 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn. 
With flow'rs so white and leaves so greei^ 



BURNS' POEMS 



109 



When purest in the dewy morn ; 
An' she's twa giancin sparklin een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
An' she's twa giancin sparklin een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she's twa giancin sparklin een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow. 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she's twa giancin sparklin een. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen. 

While his mate sits nesthng in the bush ; 
An' she's twa giancin sparklin een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe. 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen, 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
An' she's twa giancin sparklin een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean. 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
An' she's twa giancin sparklin een. 

Her breath is Hke the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean. 

When Phcebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she's twa giancin sparklin een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace. 
An' chiefly in her sparklin een. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, [ear. 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my 

Love, thou hast pleasure ; and deep hae I loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
I can feel by its throbbings., will soon be at rest. 

if I were, where happy I hae been ; [green : 
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's e'e. 



SONG. 
TuxE — " Banks of Banna." 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna. 
Was naething to my hiney bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 



Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savanna ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There Fll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 

Awa thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa thou pale Diana I 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night. 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 



SONG.* 

The Deil cam fiddling thro' the town. 

And danc'd awa wi' the exciseman ; 
And ilka wife cry'd, "Auld Mahoun, 

We wish you luck o' the prize, man. 

" TFe'ZZ mak our maut, and brew our drink, 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; 

And mony thanks to the muckle black Deil, 
That danced awa wV the exciseman. 

" There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian', 
Was — the Deil's awa wi' the exciseman. 
We''ll mak our maut, <i-c. 



SONG. 

Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form, sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit, 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her, 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her. 

When in distant lands I roam; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home.t 



HUNTING SONG. 

I RED YOU BEWARE AT THE HUNTING. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were 

mawn, 
Our lads gaed a-hunting, ae day at the dawn. 
O'er moors and o'er mosses, and mony a glen, 
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen. 

* At a meeting of his brother F,xci.semen in Dumfries, 
Burns, being called opon for a song, handed these 
verses extempore to the President, written on the back 
of a letter. 

t Probably written on Highland Mary, on the evo 
of the Poet's departure to tlie West ludifea. 



110 



BURNS» POEMS. 



/ red you beware at the hunting, young men; 
I red you beware at the hunting, you7ig men; 

Tuksoj}ieon thettiing, a?id some as they spring, 
But cannily steal on the honitie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown hea- 
ther bells. 
Her colors beiray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, 
And O 1 as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I red, 4-c. 

Auld Phoebus himsel, ashepeep'd o'er the hill, 

In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 

He leveird his rays where she bask'd on the 

brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but marked where 

she lay. / red, (J-c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But SI ill as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
/ red, (J-c. 
* * * » • 



YOUNG PEGGY. 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning. 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 

And cheer each freshening flower. 

Her lips were more than cherry bright, 

A richer die has grac'd them. 
They charm the admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe. 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming Spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Detraction's eyes no aim can gain 

Her winnmg powers to lessen : 
And fretful envy grins in vain, 

The poison' d tooth to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of Honor, Love, and Truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her; 
Inspire the highly favor'd youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. * 



SONG. 

Tune— "The King of France, he rade a Race." 

Amang the trees where humming bees 
At buds and flowers were hanging, O, 

*Tliis wns one of the Poet's earliest compositions. 
It is copied from a MS. book, which he had before his 
first publiciitioa. 



Auld Caledon drew out her drone. 
And to her pipe was singing, O ; 

'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 
She dirl'd them aff", fu' clearly, O, 

When there cam a yell o' foreign squeals, 
That dang her tapsalteerie, O. 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's. 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O, 
The hungry bike did scrape an pike 

Till we were wae and weary, O ; 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North, 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



SONG 



Tune—" John Anderson my Jo." 

One night as I did wander. 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder. 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Aire ran by before me, 

And bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crowded o'er me 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Dainty Davie." 

There was a lad was born at Kyle,* 
But what na day o' what na style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
I'o be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Robin was a rovin'' Boy, 

Rantin rovin,'', ranting rovin''; 
Robin was a rovin^ Boy, 
Rantin'' rovin'' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five and twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar Win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit in his loof. 
Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 
But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit till us a'. 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line. 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 

Good faith quo' scho I doubt you. Sir, 
Ye gar the lasses * * * * 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 
So blessin's on thee, Robin ! 

Robin was a rovin"* Boy, 

Rantin'' rovin\ rantin^ rovin ; 

Robtn rvas a rovin^ Boy, 
Rantin'' rovin'' Robin. 

* Kyle— a district of Ayrshire. 



BURNS' POEMS 



111 



SONG. 
TtTJra— "I had a Horse, and I had nae mair ? 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was nae steady, 
Where'er 1 gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had ay : 
But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, 

Not dreadin' any body. 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



SONG. 

Tune— "Galla Water." 

Altho' ray bed were in yon muir. 

Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 
Yet happy, happy would I be. 

Had I my dear Monigomerie's Peggy. — 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and rainy; 

I'll seek some deli, and in my arms 
rd shelter dear Monigomerie's Peggy. 

Were I a Baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me. 
The sharin't with Montgomerie's Peggy. 



SONG. 

O RAGING fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low, () ! 
raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low, 01 
My stem was fair, my bud was green. 

My blossom sweet did blow, O ; 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild. 

And made my branches grow, O ; 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O ; 
But luckless fortune's nothern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 



SONG. 
PATRIOTIC — uyijinished. 

Here's a health to them that''s awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa'. 

It's guid to be merry and wise. 

It's guid to be honest and true. 

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause. 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
Here's a health to Charlie,* the chief o' the clan, 
Altho' that his band be but sma'. 
May liberty meet wi' success ! 
May prudence protect her frae evil ! 
♦C. Fox. 



May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 
And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to Tammie,* the Norland laddio, 

1'hat lives at the lug o' the law ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write! [heard. 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be 

But they wham the truth wad indict. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa, [gowd, 
Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth 
I'ho' bred amang mountains o' snaw I 



SONG. 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 



As T was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring, 
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing, 
And as he was singin' thir words he did say. 
There's nae life like the ploughman's, in the 
month o' sweet May. — 

The lav'rock in the morning, she'll rise frae her 
nest, [breast. 

And mount to the air wi' the dew on her 

And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle 
and sing, 

And at night she'll return to her nest back again. 



SONG. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 

Adown her neck and bosom hiiig ; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling. 

And round that neck entwine her ! 
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 

O, what a feast, her bonnie mou ! 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner. 



BALLAD. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains. 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 

Though prest wi' care, and sunk in wo. 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart. 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 



SONG. 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at 
last, 
And the small birds sing on every tree ; 
Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad, 
Since my true love is parted from me. 
* Lord Erskiiie. 



112 



BURNS' POEMS, 



The rose upon the brier, by the waters running 
clear, 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee ; 
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts 
at rest. 
But my true love is parted from me. 



THE 

GUIDWIFE OFWAUOHOPE-HOUSE 

TO 
ROBERT BURNS. 

February, 1787. 

My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman, 

I hafflins doubt, it is na true, man. 

That ye between the stilts were bred, 

Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed. 

I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 

Either frae grammar-school, or college. 

Guid troth, your saul and body baith 

War' better fed, I'd gie my aith, 

Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritch, 

An' bummil thro' the single caritch. 

Wha ever heard the ploughman speak, 

Could tell gif Homer was a Greek? 

He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 

As get a single line of Virgil. 

An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes 

O' Willie P— t and Charlie F— x; 

Our great men a' sae weel descrive, 

An' how to gar the nation thrive, 

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them, 

An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. 

But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 

Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 

An' though the cauld I ill can bide, 

Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride, 

O'er moss, an' muir, an' never grumble, 

Tho' my auld yad shou'd gie a stumble, 

To crack a winter-night wi' thee, 

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 

A guid saut herring, an' a cake, 

Wi' sic a chiel, a feast wad make, 

I'd rather scour your reaming yill, 

Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill, 

Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine, 

An' ferlie at their wit and wine. 

O, gif I kenn'd but whare ye baide, 

I'd send to you a marled plaid ; 

'Twad baud your shoulders warm and braw, 

An' douse at kirk, or market shaw. 

For south, as weel as north, my lad, 

A' honest Scotchmen lo'e the maud, 

Right wae that we're sae far frae ither ; 

Yet proud I am to ca' ye briiher. 

Your most obed't. 

E. S. 



THE ANSWER. 
GUIDWIFE, 

I MixD it weel, in early date. 

When I was beardless, young, and blate. 

An' first could thresh the barn ; 
Or baud a yokin at the pleugh, 



An' tho' forfoughten sair enough. 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man 1 reckoned was. 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 
The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa, — 

E'n then a wish, (I mind its power) 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast ; 
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake. 
Some usefu' plan, or book could make, 

Or sing a sang at least ; 
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide 

Among the bearded bear, 
I turn'd my weeding-heuk aside, 
An' spar'd the symbol dear ; 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain; 
Till on that har'st I said before. 
My partner in the merry core. 

She rous'd the forming strain ; 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en. 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I fired, inspired, 

At ev'ry kindling keek. 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared ay to speak. 

Hale to the set, each guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter-days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of wo, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly suniphs, who hate the name. 

Be mindfu' o' your miiher : 
She, honest woman, may think shame, 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men. 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, na bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line. 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare. 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the Nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap. 
Douse hingin o'er my curple. 
Than ony ermine ever lap. 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Fareweel then, lang hale then, 

An' plenty be your fa': 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca\ 

Robert Burns. 
March, 1787. 



BURNS' POEMS 



113 



SONG. 
Tune—" The tither morn, as I forlorn." 

Yon wandering rill, that marks the hill, 
And glances o'er the brae. Sir : 

Slides by a bovver where mony a flower, 
Sheds fragrance on the day. Sir. 

There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay : 
To love they thought nae crime, Sir ; 

The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang. 
While Damon's heart beat time, Sir. 



SONG. 

As I cam in by our gate-end, 

As day was waxen weary ; 
O wha cam tripping down the street. 

But bonnie Peg, my dearie. 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting ; 

The queen of love, did never move, 
Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands, 

Adown yon winding river. 
And, oh ! that hour, an' broomy bower, 

Can I forget it ever ? 



POLLY STEWART. 
Tune—" Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart." 

O LOVELY Polly Stewart, 

O charming JPolly Stewart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 

That's half so fair as thou art. 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth, eternal youth 

Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he, whase arms shall fauld thy charms, 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the lieaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart ! 



THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie 
lass, 

And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear ; [arms. 
Till war's loud alarms tore her laddie frae her 

Wi' mony a sigh and a tear. [roar, 

Over sea, over shore, where the cannons loudly 

He still was a stranger to fear ; 
And notcht could him quell, or his bosom assail, 

But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 
Tune— "Johnny M'Gill." 

O WILT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar : 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car. 
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 

8 



I carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 
But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar. 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST 

Bobin shure in hairst, 

I shure wV him, 
Fient a heuk had 7, 

Yet 1 stack by him. 

I OAED up to Dunse, 

To warp a wad o' plaiden, 

At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin ! 
Eobiii shure, (J-c. 

Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho' I was a cotter, 
Play'd me sic a trick. 

And me the eller's dochter ? 
Bobin shure, (J-c. 

Robin promis'd me 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Kobin shure, (J-c. 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIR! 
UPON'T. 

My ladr/s gown there s gairs upon't. 
And sowden flowers sae rare upoJi^t; 
But Jenny'' s jimps andjirkinet, 
My lord thinks muckle mair upo?i^t. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane, 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane, 
By Colin's cottage lies his game. 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady''s gown, (J-c. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude. 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid. 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 
My lady''s gown, (J-c. 

Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

My lady''s gown, SfC. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs. 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns ; 
The diamond dew in her een sae blue. 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 
My lady's gown, (J-c. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest. 
My lady'' s gown, (J-c. 



114 



BURNS' POEMS 



WEE WILLIE GRAY. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ;' 
Peel a willow-wand to be him boots and jacket : 
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and 
doublet, [doublet. 

The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Twice a lily flower will be in him sark and 

cravat : 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet, 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 



THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE. 

This is one of our Bard's early productions.— Miss 
Armour was afterwards Mrs. Burns. 
Tune — " Bonnie Dundee." 
In Mauchline there dwells six proper young 
belles, 
The pride of the place and its neighborhood a', 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a': 

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine. 
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is 
braw ; [ton. 

There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Nor- 
But Armour 's the jewel for me o' them a\ 



COULD AUGHT OF SONG, 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
The muse should tell, in labor'd strains, 

O Mary, how I love thee. 
They who but feign a wounded heart, 

May teach the lyre to languish ; 
But what avails the pride of art. 

When wastes the soul with anguish. 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

O read th' imploring lover. 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising ; 
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd. 

The voice of nature prizing. 



O GUID ALE COMES. 

GUID ale comes, and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose, 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

1 had sax owsen in a pleugh. 
They drew a' weel enough, 

I sell'd them a' just ane by ane ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

Guid ale bauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 
O guid ale. comes and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose. 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 



O LEAVE NOVELS 
O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel ; 
Such witching books, are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies ree, 
They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 

And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung : 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 
The frank address, the soft caress. 

Are worse than poisoned darts of steel ; 
The frank address, and politesse, 

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG MB 

ay my wife she dang me, 
An'' aft my wife she hang''d me ; 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 
Guid faith she'll soon o'^ergang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was, I marry'd ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarry'd. 
ay my wife, d^c. 
Some sairie comfort still at last. 

When a' thir days are done, man. 
My pains o' hell on earth is past, 

Vm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
ay my wife, S^c. 



THE DEUKS DANG O'ER MY DADDIE. 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout. 

The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O ! 
The fient ma care, quo' the feirie auld wife. 

He was but a paidlin body, O ! 
He paidles out, and he paidles in. 

An' he paidles late and earlie. O ; 
This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, 

An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O. 

O haud your tongue, m.y feirie auld wife, 

O haud your tongue now, Nansie, O : 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, O : 
I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose, 

And cuddl'd me late and earlie. O ; 
But downa do's come o'er me now, 

And, oh, I find it sairly, O ! 



DELIA. 

AN ODE. 

Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 



BURNS' POEMS 



115 



But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamor'd busy bee, 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip. 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 
O let me steal one liquid kiss, 
For oh I my soul is parch'd with love 



ON A BANK or FLOWERS. 

On a bank of flowers one summer's day, 

For summer lightly dress'd. 
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep oppress'd ; 
When Willy, wand'ring thro' the wood. 

Who for her favor oft had su'd. 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose, 
Her lips still as they fragrant breath'd, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly press'd, 

Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace. 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace. 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A flattering ardent kiss he stole : 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear inspired wings ; 
So Nelly startling, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs. 
But Willy follow'd as he should. 

He overtook her in the wood, 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 

Forgiving all and good. 



EVAN BANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires ; 
To Evan's banks with temperate ray, 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me forever dear; 
Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside, 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye ! 
Does she with heart unchang'd as mine. 
Oft in thy vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 



Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to niem'ry brings. 
All that on Evan's border springs ? 
Lweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side ; 
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absenc? lost? 
Return, ye moments of delight. 
With richer treasure bless my sight ! 
Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
Nor more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



THE FIVE OARLINS. 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 
Tune—" Chevy Chace." 

There were five Carlins in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town 

To bring us tidings hame. 

Not only bring us tidings hame, 

But do our errands there. 
And aiblins gowd and honor baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggie by the banks o' Nith,* 

A dame wi' pride enough ; 
And Marjorie o' the monie Loch,t 

A Carlin auld an' teugh. 

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale.t 

That dwells near Solway side, 
And whisky Jean, that took her gill^ 

In Galloway so wide. 

And auld black Joan frae Creighton peel, II 

O' gipsy kith an' kin. 
Five weightier Carlins were na found, 

The south kintra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

They met upon a day, 
And monie a Knight and monie a Laird 

That errand fain would gae. 

O ! monie a Knight and monie a Laird 

This errand fain would gae ; 
But nae aiie could their fancy plea-ae, 

O ! ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first ane was a belted Knight, 

Bred o' a border band. 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town. 

Might nae man him withstand. 

And he wad do their errands wee!. 

And meikle he wad say. 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court, 

Wad bid to him guid day. 

Then niest came in a sodger youth, 

And spak wi' modest grace, 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

If sae their pleasure was. 

♦Dumfries. + Lochmaben. t Annan. 

§ Kirlicudbright. y Sanquhar. 



116 



BURNS' POEMS 



He wad na hecht them courtly gift, 

Nor meikle speech pretend ; 
But he wad hecht an honest heart 

Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Now whom to choose and whom refuse, 

To strife thae Carhns fell ; 
For some had gentle folks to please, 

And some wad please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 

An' she spak out wi' pride, 
An' she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld guidman o' Lon'on court 

She did not care a pin, 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale : 

A deadly aith she's ta'en, 
That she wad vote the border Knight, 

Tho' she should vote her lane. 

For far off fowls hae feathers fair, 

An' fools o' change are fain : 
But I hae tried ihe border Knight, 

I'll try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frae Creighton peel, 

A Carlin stout and grim, 
The auld guidman or young guidman. 

For me to sink or s^im ! 

For fools may prate o' right and wrang. 
While knaves laugh them to scorn ; 

But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, 
Sae he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak o'er her drink, 

Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
The auld guid man o' Lon'on court. 

His back's been at the wa'. 

And monie a friend that kiss'd his caup, 

Is now a frammit wight ; 
But it's ne'er sae wi' whisky Jean, 

We'll send the border Knight. 

Then slow rose Majorie o' the Lochs, 

And wrinkled was her brow ; 
Her ancient weed was russet gray. 

Her auld Scots heart was true. 

There's some great folks set light by me, 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

Wha I lo'e best at hame. 

So how this weighty plea will end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell ; 
G-d grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel. 



THE LASS THAT MADETHE BED 
TO ME. 

When January winds were blawing cauld, 

As to the north I bent my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 

I kenn'd na whare to lodge till day • 
By my guid luck a lass I met, 

Just in the middle of my care. 
And kindly she did me invite, 

To walk into a chamber fair. 



I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And ihank'd her for her courtesie ; 
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And bade her make a bed for me : 
She made the bed both large and wide, 

Wi' twa white hands she spread it down , 
She put the cup to her rosy lips, [sound." 

And drank, "Young man, now sleep ye 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 

And frae my chamber went wi' speed : 
But I call'd her quickly back again, 

To lay some mair below my head, 
A cod she laid below my head, 

And served me with due respect ; 
And to salute her with a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 

*' Hand aff your hands, young man," says she, 

" And dinna sae uncivil be ; 
Gif ye hae ony love for me, 

wrang na my virginity !" 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivory, 
Her cheeks like iilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see, 
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again. 

And ay she wistna what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; 

The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow, when we raise, 

1 thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
But ay she blush'd, and ay she sigh'd, 

And said, "Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

While the tear stood twinkling in her e'e, 
I said, my lassie, dinna cry. 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." 

She took her mither's Holland sheets, 

And made them a' in sarks to me ; 
Blithe and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass made the bed to me. 

The braw lass made the bed to me ; 
I'll ne'er forget, till the day that I die, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM.* 
A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast, has been blawn in the 
wast. 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac,t Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a 
rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

* This Poem was written a short time after the pub- 
lication of Dr. M'GiU's Essay. t Dr. M'Gill. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



117 



Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I de- 
clare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief. 

And orator Bob * is it's ruin. 

D'rymple mild, t D'rymple mild, tho' your 
heart's like a child, 

And your life like the new driven snaw, [ye, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

For preaching that's three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John.t Rumble John, mount the steps 
wi a groan, 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; [addle. 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like 

And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, ^5 Simper James, leave the fair 
Killie dames. 

There's a holier chase in your view ; [lead, 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'Il soon 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawny,!! Singet Sawny, are ye hording 
the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ? 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld, IF Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk; [death, 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the 

And gif you canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster,** Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye 
do muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits : [boast, 

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Groose,tt Jamie Groose, ye hae made 
but toom roose, 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; [ark, 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's haly 

He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie, tt Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a 
volley, 

Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus's side ye ne'er lade a stride. 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he s — t. 

Andro Gouk, ^"^ Andro Gouk, ye may slander 
the book, 
And the book nane the waur let me tell ye ! 
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and 
wig. 
And ye'll hae a calf head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie.lllj Barr Steenie, what mean ye? 
what mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to bavins and sense, 

Wi' the people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Slide, HIT Irvine Slide, wi' your turkey- 
cock pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 

* R 1 A— k~n. t D— m- le. t Mr. R— ss— 11. 

§ Mr. M'K— y. || Mr. M y. U Mr. A— d. 

#» Mr. G 1 of O— 1— e. ft Mr. Y— g ofC— r.-k. 

UMt. P— b— sof a— r. §§ Dr. A. M— 11. |||| Mr. 

S n Y g of B r. ^H Mr. S h 

ofG n. 



Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will 

allow, [mair. 

And your friends they dare grant you nae 

Muirland Jock,* Muirland Jock, when the 
L — d makes a rock 

To crush common sense for her sins, [fit 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will,t Holy Will, there was wit i' your 
skull. 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, whenye're ta'en for asant, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, your sp'ritual guns, 
Ammunition you never can need ; [enough. 

Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther 
And your skulls are the storehouse o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelp- 
ing turns. 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS. 

a' ye pious, godly flocks, 
Well fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes ? 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks. 
About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty summers past, 

O 1 dool to tell, 
Hae had a bitter black out-cast, 

Atween themsel. 

O, M y, man, and wordy R II, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I hae min'. 

O, Sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit, 
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank. 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, ay clear, they drank, 

sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock and tod, 
Weel kenn'd his voice thro' a' the wood. 
He smell'd their ilka hole and road, 
Baith out and in. 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid. 
And sell their skin. 

What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale ? 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 



*Mr. 



t An Elder in M- 



118 



BURNS' POEMS. 



He kenn'd the Lord's sheep ilka tail, 
O'er a' the height, 

And saw gin they were sick or hale, 
At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 
Or nobly fling the gospel club, 
And new-light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; 
Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't- 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, hke villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'cn. 
While new-light herds wi' laughin spite, 

Say neither's lien' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n, deep, and P s, shaul. 

But chiefly thou, apostle A — d, 

We trust in thee. 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that we get. 
But comes fi-ae 'mang that cursed set, 

I winna name, 

I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D -e has been lang our fae, 

M' II has wrought us meikle wae. 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e. 

And baith the S s, 

That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought ay death wad bring relief. 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats among oursel, 

There S h for ane, 

I doubt he's but a gray nick tjuill, 

And that ye'U fin'. 

! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills. 
By mosses, meadows, moors and fells. 
Come join your counsel and your skills, 
To cowe the lairds. 
And get the brutes the power themselves, 
To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. 
And Learning, in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence, 

M' ll's close, nervous excellence, 

M'Q 's pathetic, manly sense, 

And guid M' h, 

Wi' S th, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aft'. 



A EPISTLE FROM A TAILOrv 

TO 
ROBERT BURNS. 

What waefu' news is this I hear, 
Frae greeting I can scarce forbear. 
Folks tell me, ye're gawn aff" this year, 

Out o'er the sea. 
And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear 

Will greet for thee. 

Weel wad T like, war ye to stay, 
But, Robin, since ye will away, 
I hae a word yet mair to say. 

And maybe twa; 
May he protect us night an' day, 

That made us a'. 

Whaur thou art gaun, keep mind frae me, 
Seek him to bear thee companie. 
And, Robin, whan yc come to die, 

Ye'll won aboon. 
An' live at peace an' unity 

Ayont the moon. 

Some tell me, Rab, ye dinna fear 
To get a wean, an' curse an' swear, 
I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear 

O' sic a trade, 
Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear, 

I wad be glad. 

Fu' weel ye ken ye'U gang to hell, 

Gin ye persist in domg ill — 

Waes me: ye're hurlin down the hill 

Wiihouten dread, 

An' ye'U get leave to swear your fill 

After ye're dead. 

There walth o' women ye'U get near. 
But gettin weans ye will forbear, 
Ye'll never say, my bonnie dear. 

Come, gie's a kiss — 
Nae kissing there — ye'll grin an' sneer. 

An' ither hiss. 

Rab ! lay by thy foolish tricks, 
An' steer nae mair the female sex. 
Or some day ye'll come through the pricks, 

An' that ye'll see ; 
Ye'll find hard living wi' Auld Nicks; 

I'm wae for thee. 

But what's this comes wi' sic a knell, 
Amaist as loud as ony bell ? 
While it does mak my conscience tell 

Me what is true, 
I'm but a ragget cowt mysel, 

Owre sib to you I 

We're owre like those wha think it fit, 
To stuff" their noddles fu' o' wit. 
An' yet content in darkness sit, 

Wha shun the light. 
To let them see down to the pit. 

That lang, dark night. 

But farewell, Rab, I maun awa'. 
May he that made us, keep us a'. 
For that would be a dreadfu' fa'. 

And hurt us sair, 
Lad, ye wad never mend ava, 

Sae, Rab, tak care. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



119 



THE ANSWER. 

What ails ye now, ye lousy b — h, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man 1 hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I did na suffer ha'f sae much, 

Fra Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when I grow crouse, 
I gie their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse, 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick the louse, 
An' jag the flae. 

King David o' poetic brief, 
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 
As fill'd his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants. 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

O' lang syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Cloufy's haunts, 

An unco slip yet, 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 
Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 
Than garran lassies cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body. 
And sairly thole their mither's ban, 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How much I did with the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port 

Cry'd three times. " Robin 
Come hither lad, an answer for't, 

Ye're blam'd for jobbin." 

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on. 
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session — 
I made an open, fair comfession, 

I scorn'd to lie : 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 

A fornicator lown he call'd me, 
An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me ; 
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

"But what the matter?" 
Quo' I, " I fear, unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

" Geld you," quo' he, " and what for no l 
If that your right hand, leg or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe. 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it aff, an' what for no 

Your dearest member?" 

" Na, na," quo' I, " I'm not for that. 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my fau't, 

A hearty flewit. 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't ! 

Tho' I should rue it 

Or gin ye like to end the bother. 
To please us a', I've just ae ither, 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither. 

An' let her guide it." 



But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava. 
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, 
I said, " Guid night," and cam awa', 

And left the Session ; 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

O Goudie! terror o' the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Soor Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Gtrnin looTts back, 
Wishin the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstition, 
Waes me I she's in a sad condition ; 
Fly, bring Black Jock, her state physician. 

To see her w — ter ; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple, 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel. 

Nigh unto death ; 
See how she fetches at the thrapple 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gaen in a galloping consumption, 
Not a' the quacks wi' a' their gumption. 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, 
Death will soon end her. 

'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief: 
But gin the L — d's ain folks gat leave, 

A toom tar barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief. 

An' end the quarrel. 



LETTER TO J S T T GL-NC—R. 

Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner. 
How's a' the folk about Gl — nc — r ; 
How do you this blae eastlin wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind : 
For me, my faculties are frozen. 
My dearest member nearly dozen'd : 
I've sent you here by Johnie Simpson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled. 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled. 
Till wi' their logic jargon tir'd, 
An' in the depth of science mir'd. 
To common sense they now appeal. 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feci ; 
But hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly, 
Peruse them an' return them quickly ; 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house, 

♦ Dr. Taylor of Norwich. 



120 



BURNS' POEMS 



My shins, my lane, I there set roastin, 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 
Till by an' by, if I baud on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan: 
Already I begin to try it. 
To cast my een up like a pyet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore ; 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men ; 
When bending down with auld gray hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares. 
May he who made him^ still support him, 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him ; 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear. 



ON THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; 

fh' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 
air. 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell. 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ;* 

Or miis'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, 
well.t 
Or moldering ruins mark the sacred fane.t 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 

rocks, [sky; 

The clouds, swift- wing'd, flew o'er the starry 

♦The King's Park, at Holyrood-house 

t St. Anthony's Well. $St. Anthony's Chapel. I 



The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startling 
eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east. 
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of wo. that frantic beat her breast. 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive wo. 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war ; U 
Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar. 
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the 
world. — 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 

" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch' d to 

save, [pride ! 

Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tears. 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier. 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt 
sigh.— 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid this guardian low. — 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name ? 

No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares. 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other B lairs" — 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS 



A CANTATA 



RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or, wavering like the bauckie* bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstones drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frost begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreugh drest ; 
Ae night at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie-gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their ora daddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm. 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
And aye he gies the tousie drab 

The tither skelpin kiss. 
While she held up her greedy gab, 
Just like an a'mous dish ; 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whup. 
Then staggering, and swaggering, 
He roar'd this ditty up — 



TuNTJ— " Soldier's Joy." 

I AM a son of Mars, who have been in many 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a 

trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of 

the drum. Lai de daudle, (f-c. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd 
his last, [of Abram ; 

When the bloody die was cast on the heights 

I serv'd out my trade where the gallant game 
was play'd. 

And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 
drum. Lai de daudle, (J-c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries. 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the 

drum. Lai de daudle, ^c. 

*The old Scottish name for the Bat 



And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm 

and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my walleLr my bottle, and 

my callet. 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow the drum. 
Lai de daudle, (J-f. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 
windy shocks, [a home ; 

Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for 

When the toiher bag I sell, and the tother bot- 
tle tell, [drum. 

I could meet a troop of h-11, at the sound of the 
Lai de daudle, (J-c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore : 

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial's chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 



Tune—" Soldier Laddie.'* 

I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing lal de lal, <^c. 

The first of my lovers was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Si7ig lal de lal, 4-c. 

But the goodly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the 

church ; 
He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing lal de lal, (J-c. 

Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got , 
From the gilded sponioon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sirig lal de lal, (J-c. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair. 
Till 1 met my old boy at a Cunningham fair, 



122 



BURNS' POEMS. 



His rags regimental they flutter'd sae gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 
Si?ig lal de lal, (f-c. 

And now I have hv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 

steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing lal de lal, SfC. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na what the chorus took. 

Between themselves they were sae bizzy ; 
At length, wi' drink an' courting dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 



Tune—" Auld Sir Symon." 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk. 
And I held awa to the school ; 

I fear [ my talent misteuk ; 
But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of ane that's avowedly daft. 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 
For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew ihat tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n, I'm tauld. i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observed ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad, 
It 's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 
Gude L — d, is far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest out spak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to deck the sterlin, 
For monie a pursie she had hooked. 
And had in monie a well been ducket ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 

AIR. 
Tune— "O an' ye were dead, guidman." 

A HIGHLAND lad my love was born. 
The Lawlan' laws he held in scorn ; 



But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 



Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman; 
Sing ho, my braw Joh?i Highlandman; 
There's not a lad in all the Ian'' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg and tartan plaid. 
And guid claymore down by his side. 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan. 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, (J-c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lallan face he feared nane, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, (J-c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing hey, ^c. 

But oh ! they catch'd him at the last. 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one. 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman 
Sing hey, (f-c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasure that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, ^-c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy Scraper, wi' his fiddle, 
Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle. 
Her strappiu limb and gaucy middle 

(He reach'd nae higher,) 
Had hol't his heartie like a riddle. 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut ane, twa, three, 
Then, in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set aff", wi' Allegretto glee. 

His giga solo, 

AIR. 
Tune— "Whistle o'er the lave o'l." 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear. 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle o'er the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 
1 am a fiddler to my trade. 
And a' the tunes that e^.r I played. 
The sweetest still to wife or maid. 
Was whistle o^er the lave oH. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about, till Daddie Caro 
Sings whistle o'er the lave o't. 

/ am, ^c. 

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke, 
And sun oursels about the dyke, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



123 



And at our leisure, when we like, 
We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. 

J am, SfC. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld. and a' sic harms, 
May whistle o'er the lave o't. 

/ am, (J-c. 

KECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird 

As weel as poor Gut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a roosty rapier — 
He swoor, by a' was swearing worth. 

To spit him like a pliver. 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her forever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face. 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her. 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve. 

When thus the Caird address 'd her : 

AIR. 
TuKE — "Clout the Cauldron." 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travel'd round all Christian ground. 

In this my occupation ; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search 'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

i've iaen the gold, (J-c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin. 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stowp, my faith and houp. 

And by that dear Kilbadgie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 
May I ne'er want my craigie. 

And hy that stoup, ^c. 

KECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail' d — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae fair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violina, with an air 

'That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft. 

That play'd the dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 

• A peculiar sort of whisky, so called; a groat fa- 
vorite wtih Posie Nansie's clubs. 



He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft. 
And shor'd them Dainty Davie 
O boot that night. 

He was a care -defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad. 

Nor want — but when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 
Tune—" For a' that, and a' that." 

I AM a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentlefolks, and a' that : 

But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as meikW s a' that; 

I've lost but ane, I've twa' behin\ 
I've wife enough, for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn, and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, <^c. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair. 
Their humble slave, and a' that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, ^c. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love, and a' that ; 

But for how lang the flie may stang. 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, (f c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and " Here's the sex 
I like the jade for a' that. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as meikle's a' that, 
My dearest hluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome tiW t , for a' ihit. 



RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request. 
To lowse his pack, and wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best ; 
He, rising, rojoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



124 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tune—" Jolly mortals, fill your glasses." 

See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 

Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing : 



Afis for those hy law protected .■' 
Liberty''s a glorious feast ! 

Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter, how or where ! 
A fig, 6fC. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

^ figi ^c. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
-A. fig, 4-c. 



Life is all a variorum. 

We regard not how it goes ; 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 

A fig, 6rc. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets I 
Here's to all the wandering train ! 

Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 
One and all cry out, Amen ! 

A fig, <fc. 



EXTEMPORE. 
April, 1782. 

WHY the deuce should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder ? 

I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine— 
I'll go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear wi' meikle care, 
I held it weel thegither ; 

But now it's gane, and something mair, 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



EXTRACTED FROM 



THE LATE EDITION OF BURNS' WORKS, 



EDITED BY 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 



ADVERTISEMENT 



The careless manner in which Burns distributed many of his elusions 
among his friends, with scarcely any regard to their preservation, has hith- 
erto rendered a complete edition of his works a desideratum very difficult of 
attainment. Short poems, of great merit, have been, from time to time, 
rescued from obscurity, and inserted in the successive editions of his works ; 
but a considerable number were, from a variety of considerations, still sup- 
pressed, until the recent publication of Cunningham's edition has brought 
them to light. With respect to some of the fugitive pieces, the reasons 
for their suppression are sufficienly obvious, even if they had not been 
fairly and very properly avowed by the poet himself. They are such as 
could neither do honor to him, nor service to the public at large ; and al- 
though their original effusion may be excusable, in consideration of the 
political or personal feelings which prompted them, yet their preservation 
is no less unjust to the reputation of the bard, than detrimental to the 
cause of good taste and pure morality. 

These observations are applicable to a part only of the additions to 
Burns' Works, which have been made in Cunningham's edition. All 
those pieces to which they do not, with greater or less force, apply, have 
been introduced into the new edition which we now offer to the public, 
and which we believe to be entitled, in every proper and worthy sense, 
to be considered the Complete Works of Burns ; inasmuch as we are 
fully convinced that a revision of his works by the author himself, would 
have left nothing in them which we have not retained. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



HOLT WILLIE'S PRATER 

Thou, wha in the heavenes dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 

Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 
A' for thy glory, 

And no for ony gude or ill 

I'hey've done afore thee ! 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts and grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 
What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation, 
1 wha deserve sic just damnation. 

For broken laws. 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause. 
When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burniii' lake, 
Whar damned devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

Yet T am here a chosen sample ; 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

Tm here a pillar in thy temple. 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example, 

To a' thy flock. 

But yet, O L — d ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust ; 
And sometimes, too. wi' warldly trust. 

Vile self gets m ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defil'd in sin. 

Besides, I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — 

But L — d, that Friday I was fou. 

When I came near her. 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 
Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne. 

Until thou lift it, 

L — d, bless thy chosen in this place. 
For here thou hast a chosen race ; 
But G — d confound their stubborn face, 
And blast their name, 



Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

And public shame. 

L — d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts. 

He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts, 

Yet has sae niony takin' arts, 

Wi' grit and sma', 

Frae G — d's ain priests the people's hearts 
He steals awa. 

An' whan we chasten'd him therefor, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld in a roar 

O' laughin' at us; — 
Curse thou his basket and his store. 

Kail and potatoes. 
L — d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r. 
Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; 
Thy strong right hand, L — d, mnk it bare 

Upo' their heads, 
L — d, weigh it down, and dinna spare. 

For their misdeeds. 
O L — d my G — d. that glib-tongu'd Aiken, 
My very heart and saul are quakin'. 
To think how we stood groanin, shakin'. 

And swat wi' dread, 
While he wi' hingin lips and snakin'. 

Held up his head. 
L — d, in the day of vengeance try him, 
L — d, visit them wha did employ him. 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r; 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em. 

And dinna spare. 
But, L — d, remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Exceird by nane. 
And a' the glory shall be thine. 

Amen, Amen ! 



THE FAREWELL. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 

Or what does he regard his single woes? 

But when, ala<! I he multiplies himselt". 

To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 

To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him. 

To helpless children I then. O then ! he feels 

The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, 

And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 

Such, such am I ! undoi\e !" 

Thomson's Edward and Ekanora. 

1. 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains. 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 
Where rich ananas blow I 

127 



128 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh I a sister's tear ! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou' It share ! 
Adieu too, to you too, 

My Smith, my bosom frien' ; 
When kindly you mind me, 
O then befriend my Jean ! 

II. 

"What bursting anguish tears my heart . 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part ' 

Thou weeping answ'rest no ! 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace ; 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu I 
I, with a much indebted tear. 
Shall still remember you ! 
All-hail then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore ! 
It rustles, and whistles, 
I'll ne'er see thee more ! 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 
I. 

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride. 

And eke a braw new brechan, 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnassus pechin ; 
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush. 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets, and off he sets, 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

II. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae stranger to your fame. 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, 

His honest heart enamors, 
And faith, ye'll no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 

III. 

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, 

And honor safely back her. 
And modesty assume your air. 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire even holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

IV. 

I doubt, na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouiher'd priestie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 

And band upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His lexicons and grammars ; 
The feeling hearts' the royal blue, 

And that's wi' WiUie Chalmers. 



V. 

Some gapin'. glowrin', countra laird. 

May warsle for your favor ; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beard, 

And host up some palaver. 
My bonnie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

VI. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom. 
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues. 

For de'il a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amors, — 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



LINES. 



WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE. 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, 
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief; 
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass. 
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 
I see the children of affliction 
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. 
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 
Amid his hapless victim's spoil : 
And for thy potence vainly wish'd, 
To crush the villain in the dust. 
For lack o' thee, I leave this much lov'd shore, 
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspiring fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dooI» 

And drap a tear. 
Is there a bard of rustic song. 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater- fee ling strong, 

Here, heave a sigh. 
Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer. 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and; through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 
The poor inhabitant below. 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame. 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain'd his name ! 
Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control. 

Is wisdom's root. 



BURNS' POEMS 



129 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie, 

We never heed, 
But take it like the unbacked filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly groavan whyles we saunter, 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, the then scathe an' banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart I hale be your fiddle 1 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' this wild warl', 
Until you on a crummock driddle 

A gray-hair'd carl. 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon. 
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune. 
And screw your temper pins aboon 

A fifth or mair, 
The melancholious, lazie croon 

O' cankrie care. 

May still your life, from day to day, 
Nae " lente largo" in the play. 
But "allegretto forte " gay 

Harmonious flow, 
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey — 

Encore ! bravo ! 

A blessing on the cherry gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 
An' never think o' right an' wrang 

By square an' rule. 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand- waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts I 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless brither, 
r th' ither warl', if there's anither. 
An' that there is I've little swither 

About the matter ; 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely, 
Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly. 

For our grand fa'; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers. 
The witching, curs'd, delicious blinkers 

Hae put me hyte. 
And gart me sweet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnan spite. 

But by yon moon ! — and that's high swearin' — 
An' every star within my hearin' ! 
An' by her een wha was a dear ane I 

I'll ne'er forget; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 

„ In fair play yet. 

y 



My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were winted. 

Some cantraip hour. 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then, vive V amour ! 

Faites mes baissemains respectueuse, 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

An' honest Lucky ; no to roose you. 

Ye may be proud. 
That sic a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure, 

An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure ; 

But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
Sir Bard will do himselfthe pleasure 
To call at Park. 
Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786. 



ON 

THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, Esq 

OF ARNISTON, 

LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSIOW. 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering 

rocks ; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains. 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant 

plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves. 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar, 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod ; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow. 
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, 
Now gay in hope, explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly. 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry : 

Mark ruflSan Violence, distain'd with crimes. 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times, 
View unsuspectin£|- Innocence a prey, 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : 
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: 
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale. 
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied 

wail ! 
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 



130 



BURNS' POEMS, 



Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings nnine, 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



EPISTLE 
TO HUGH PARKER. 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 

Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles, 

Nor limpet in poetic shackles ; 

A land that prose did never view it, 

Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it ; 

Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek. 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 

1 hear it — for in vain 1 leuk. — 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters ; 

For life and spunk, like ither Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 

Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes'.* 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 

Dowie she saunters down Niihside, 

And ay a westlin leuk she throws, 

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose ! 

Was it for this, wi' canny care, 

Thou bure the Bard through many a shire ? 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled. 

And late or early never grumbled ?•— 

O, had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation, 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; 

Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 

Or when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race. 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 

For I could lay my bread and kail 

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — 

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, 

And sma', sma' prospect of relief, 

And nought but peat reek i' my head, 

How can I write what ye can read ? — 

Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Ye'Il iin,d me in a better tune ; 

But till we meet and weet our whistle, 

Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq. 

O, COULD I give thee India's wealth, 

As I this trifle send ! 
B.ecause thy joy in both would be 

To share them wi' a friend. 

But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then tak what gold could never buy- 

An honest Bard's esteem. 

* His mare. 



EPISTLE 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. 

OF FINTRAY I 

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEK 

SIR JAMES JOHNSTON AND CAPTAtN MILLER, FOR 

THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 

FiNTRAY, my Stay in worldly strife. 
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle 's I am ? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings; 
And, bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns. 

And kissing barefit carlins. 

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode, 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buflTand blue unfurled, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurled 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star ; 

Besides, he hated bleeding : 
But left behind him heroes bright, 
Heroes in Caesarean fight. 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

O ! for a throat like some huge Mons-meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner; 
Heroes and heroines commix, 
All in a field of politics, 

To win immortal honor. 

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamor'd laurels kiss her brows!) 

Led on the loves and graces : 
She won each gaping burgess' heart, 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps. 
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder : 
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins. 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs. 

And bar'd the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig,* who set at naught 

The wildest savage 'I'ory : 
And Welsh, t who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, 
High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round 

With Cyclopeian fury. 

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ! 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
'Mid Lawson'sl port entrench'd his hold. 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd. 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd. 
Surpasses my descriving : 

* Provost Staig of Dumfries. t Sheriff Welsli. 

+ Lawsoii, a wine merchant in Dumfries. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



131 



Squadrons extenaea long and large, 
With furious speed rush to the charge, 
Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror girn'd — pale Terror roar'd, 
As Murther at his ihrapple shor'd, 

And heil mix'd in the brulzie. 

As highland craigs by thunder cleft, 
When light'nings fire the stormy lift, 

Hurl down with crashing rattle 
As flames among a hundred woods; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods, 

Such is the rage of battle ! 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th' approaching fellers : 
The Whigs come on like Oceairs roar, 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers. 

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight. 

And think on former daring: 
The muffled murtherer* of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls, 

All deadly gules it's bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 

Bold Scrimgeourt follows gallant Graham, t 

Auld Covenanters shiver. 
(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose ! 
Now death and hell engulph thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high forever !) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns. 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 

But Fate the word has spoken : 
For woman's wit, and strength o'man, 
Alas I can do but what they can ! 

The Tory ranks are broken. 

O that my een were flowing burns, 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cubs' undoing ! 
That I might greet, that I might cry, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly. 

And furious Whigs pursuing ! 

What Whig but melts for good Sir James? 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor ! 
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stewart,^ bold as Hector. 

Thou, Pitt, shah rue this overthrow ; 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe ; 

And Melville melt in wailing! 
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise, 

Thy power is all-prevailing ! 

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar 
He only hears and sees the war, 

A cool spectator purely : 
; So, when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends. 

And sober chirps securely. 

♦The executioner of Charles I. was masked, 
t Scrimgcour, Lord Dundee. 
! $ Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 

$ Stewart of Hillside. 



ADDRESS or BEELZEBUB 

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. 

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, 
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; 
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger. 
May tN\in auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as larnl)kins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight. 

I doubt na". they wad bid nae better 

Than let them ance out owre the water ; 

Then up aniang thae lakes and seas 

They'll mak' what rules and laws they please: 

Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 

May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; 

Some Washington again may head them. 

Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, 

Till God knows what may be effected. 

When by such heads and hearts directed — 

Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 

May to Patrician rights aspire ! 

Nae sage North, nor sager Sackville, 

To watch and premier o'er the pack, vile, 

An' whare will ye get Howes or Clintons 

To bring them to a right repentance, 

To cowe the rebel generation, 

An' save the honor of the nation ? 

They an' be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat, or sleep, or light o' day ? 
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, 
But what your lordship likes to gie them ? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear I 

Your hand's owre lighten them, I fear; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 

I canna' say but they do gaylies ; 

They lay aside a' tender mercies, 

An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; 

But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 

An' rot the dyvors i' the jails! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labor. 

Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! 

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, 

Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! 

An' if the wives an' dirty brats 

E'en thigger at your doors and yetts, 

Flaffan wi' duds an" gray wi' beas', 

Frightin' away your deucks an' geese, 

Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, 

The largest thong, the fiercest growler, 

An gar the tattered gypsies pack 

Wi' a' their bastarts at their back ! 

Go on, my Lord ! 1 lang to meet you, 

An' in my house at hame to greet you ; 

Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle. 

The benmost neuk beside the ingle. 

At my right han' assign'd your seat 

'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate,— 

Or if you on your station tarrow. 

Between Almagro and Pizarro, 

A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 

An' till ye come — Your humble servant, 

Beelzebub. 
June 1st, Anno Mundi, 1790. 



TO JOHN TAYLOR. 

With Pegasus upon a day, 
Apollo weary flying, 



132 



BURNS' POEMS 



Through frosty hills the journey lay,- 
On foot the way was plying, 

Poor slip-shod, giddy Pegasus, 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes. 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 

And did Sol's business in a crack ; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockheadj 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 



lEBING MISS FONTENELLE 
IN A FAVORITE CHARACTER. 

Sweet naivete of feature, 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, but thanks to nature. 
Thou art acting but thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. 
Spurning nature, torturing art ; 

Loves and graces all rejected. 
Then indeed thou'd'st act a part. 



THE BOOK-WORMS. 

Through and through the inspired leaves, 
Ye maggots, make your windings ; 

But, oh ! respect his lordship's taste. 
And spare his golden bindings. 



THE REPROOF. 

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name 
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame ; 
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes 

hke the Bible, 
Says, the more 'tis a truth. Sir, the more 'tis a 

libel ? 



THE REPLY. 



Like Esop's lion. Burns' says, sore I feel 
All others scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 



THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. 

As cauld a wind as ever blew, 
A caulder kirk, and in't but few ; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 



THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 

The Solemn League and Covenant 
Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears : 

But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause — 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET, 

There's death in the cup — sae beware I 
Nay, more — there is danger in touching : 

But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 
The man and the wine sae bewitching ! 



THE TOAD-EATER. 

What of earls with whom you have supt. 
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen ? 

Lord ! a louse. Sir, is still but a louse. 
Though it crawl on the curls of a queen. 



THE SELKIRK GRACE. 

Some hae meat and canna eat. 
And some wad eat that want it. 

But we hae meat, and we can eat, 
And sae the Lord be thanket. 



ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 

To those who for her loss are griev'd, 

This consolation's given — 
She's from a world of wo reliev'd. 

And blooms a rose in heaven. 



THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 

Tune—" Shawnboy." 

I. 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation ; [other 

Your thrifty auld mother has scarce such an- 

To sit in that honored station. 
Pve little to say, but only to pray. 

As praying's the ton of your fashion ; 
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

*Tis seldom her favorite passion. 

II. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and tlie 
tide. 

Who marked each element's border ; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim. 

Whose sovereign statute is order; [tention 
Within this dear mansion may wayward con- 

Or wither'd envv ne'er enter ; 
May secresy round be the mystical bound. 

And brotherly love be the centre. 



ON A SUICIDE. 

Earth'd up here lies an impo' hell, 
Planted by Satan's dibble — 

Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel'. 
To save the Lord the trouble. 



BURNS' POEMS 



133 



THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 
TuNB— '' Maggy Lauder." 

I. 

I MARRIED with a scolding wife 

The fourteenth of November ; 
She made me weary of my Ufe, 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her hfe is ended. 

II. 

We liv'd full one and twenty years 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she steered, 

And gone I know not whither: 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

III. 

Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her ; 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her. 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder ! 
For why, — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



THERE WAS A LA 



TUNE- 



Duncan Davison." 
I. 



There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
There was a lad that followed her, 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, 

Her favor Duncan could na win ; 
For wi' the roke she wad him knock, 

And ay she shook the temper-pin. 

II. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green. 
Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks. 

And ay she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith, 

That Meg should be a bride the morn, 
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, 

And flang them a' out o'er the burn. 

III. 

We'll big a house — a wee, wee house. 

And we will live like king and queen, 
Sae blithe and merry we will be 

When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk ; 

A man may fight and no be slain ; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass, 

And ay be welcome back again. 



THENIEL MENZIE'S BONNIE 
MARY. 
Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." 
I. 
In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
As day was dawnin' in the sky, 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 

n. 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, 
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry ; 

And ay, they dimpl't wi' a smile. 
The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 

HI. 

We lap and danced the lee lang day, 

Till piper lads were wae and weary ; 
But Charlie got the spring to pay. 
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND 

I LOVE. 

Air—" Carron Side." 

I. 

Frae the friends and land I love, 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove. 

Never mair to taste delight ; 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease from toil, relief frae care ; 
When remembrance wracks the mind, 

Pleasures but unvail despair. 

II. 

Brightest climes shall mirk«appear, 

Desert ilka blooming shore, 
Till the fates, nae mair severe. 

Friendship, love, and peace restore ; 
Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, 

Bring our banish'd hame again ; 
And ilk loyal bonnie lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY. 

Tune—" Duncan Gray." 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't I 
When a' the lave gae to their play, 
Then I maun sit the lee lang day, 
And jog the cradle wi' my tae, 

And a' for girdin o't. 

II. 

Bonnie was the Lammas moon— 
Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 



134 



BURNS' POEMS, 



Glowrin' a' the hills aboon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
The girdin brak, the beast came down, 
I tint my curch, and baith my shoon ; 
Ah ! Duncan ye' re an unco loon — 

Wae on tha bad girdin o't I 

III. 
But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Ise bless you wi' my hindmost breath — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 
The beast again can bear us baith, 
And auld Mess John will mend the skaith, 

And clout the bad girden o't. 



THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE 
MAY BLAW. 
Tune — "To daunton me." 
I. 
The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, 
The simmer lilies bloom in snaw. 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me so young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

IT. 

For a' his meal and a' his maut, 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

III. 
His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes ; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

IV. 

He hirples twa fauld as he dow, 

Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 

And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd 
ee — 

That auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 
Tune— "Up wi» the Ploughman." 

I. 

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit below his knee. 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

Then up wi' the ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman ! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman. 



II. 

My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, 

He's aften wat and weary ; 
Cast of the wat, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed, my dearie ! 

III. 

I will wash my ploughman's hose, 
And I will dress his o'erlay ; 

I will mak my ploughman's bed. 
And cheer him late and early. 

IV. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at Saint Johnston ; 

The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'. 

V. 

Snaw-white stockins on his legs, 
And siller buckles glancin' ; 

A gude blue bonnet on his head— 
And O, but he was handsome ! 

VI. 

Commend me to the barn-yard, 

And the corn-mou, man ; 
I never gat my coggie fou, 
Till I met wi' the ploughman. 
Up wi' my ploughman lad. 

And hey my merry ploughman! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken. 
Commend me to the ploughman. 



RATTLIN' 



OARIN' WILLIE 



Tune—" Ratllin', Roarin' Willie " 
I. 

rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

O, he held to the fair, 
An' for to sell his fiddle, 

An' buy some other ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The saut tear blin't his ee, 
And rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome home to me ! 

II. 

Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

sell your fiddle sae fine ; 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine ! 
If I should sell my fiddle. 

The warl' would think I was mad, 
For mony a rantin' day, 

My fiddle and 1 hae had. 

III. 
As I cam by Crochallan, 

1 cannily keekit ben — 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en' ; 
Sitting at yon board en'. 

And amang good companie ; 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 



BURNS' POEMS 



135 



AS I WAS A-WAND'RING. 
TtNE— " Rinu Meudial mo Mhealladh." 
I. 
As I was a wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', 
The pipers and youngsters were making their 
game ; 
Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, 

Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolor again. 
Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' 
him ; 
I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 
My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 

ir. 

I couldna get sleeping till dawnin' for greetin\ 
The tears trickled down like the hail and the 
rain: 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, 
For, oh I love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 

III. 

Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, 

I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 

Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 
Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' 
him, 

I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. 

Tune—" Highlander's Lament." 
I. 
My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain : 
But now he's banished far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 

for him back again ! 

O for him back again ! 

1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land. 

For Highland Harry back again. 

II. 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I set me down and greet my fill, 

And ay I wish him back again. 

III. 

O were some villains hangit high. 

And ilka body had their ain ! 
Then I might see the joyfu' sight. 

My Highland Harry back again. 

for him back again ! 
O for him back again ! 

1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land. 

For Highland Harry back again. 



SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 
Tune— " A waukin o' ". 
I. 
Simmek's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of ev'ry color ; 



The water rins o'er the heugh, 
And I long for my true lover. 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 

II. 

When I sleep I dream. 
When 1 wauk I'm eerie ; 

Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 

in. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the lave are sleeping ; 
I think on my bonnie lad. 
And I bleer my een with greetin . 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 



WHEN ROSY MAY. 

Tune—" The gardener wi' his paidle." 

I. 

When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers, 
Then busy, busy are his hours — 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
The crystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry birds are lovers a' ; 
The scented breezes round him blaw — 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

II. 

When purple morning starts the hare 

To steal upon her early fare, 

Then thro' the dews he maun repair — 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
When day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws of nature's rest. 
He flies to her arms, he lo'es best— 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 



LADY MARY ANN. 

Tune—" Craigtown's growing.' 

I. 

O, Lady Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle wa'. 
She saw three bonnie boys 

Playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was 

The flower amang them a'. 
My bonnie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 

II. 

O father : O father ! 

An' ye think it fit. 
We'll send him a year 

To the college yet ; 
We'll sew a green ribbon 

Round about his hat, 
And that will let them ken 

He's to marry yet. 



136 



BURNS' POEMS. 



in. 

Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, 

And bonnie was its hue ; 
And the langer it blossom'd, 

The sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonnier yet. 

IV. 

Young Charlie Cochran 

Was the sprout of an aik ; 
Bonnie and bloomin', 

And straught was its make : 
The sun took delight 

To shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag 

0' the forest yet. 

V. 

The simmer is gane 

When the leaves they were green, 
And the days are awa 

That we hae seen ; 
But far better days 

I trust will come again, 
For my bonnie laddie's young. 

But he's growin' yei. 



II. 

Hear the woodlark charm the forest 

Telling o''er his little joys : 
Hapless bird I a prey the surest 

To each pirate of the skies. 
Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. 
Tune—'' Lady Badinscoth's Reel." 



My love she''s but a lassie yet, 

My love she's but a lassie yet ; 
Well let her stand a year or iwa. 

Shell no be half sae saucy yet. 
I rue the day I sought her, O, 

I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
Wha gets her, needs na say she's woo'd. 

But he may say he's bought her, O ! 

II. 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet. 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 

An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. 



SENSIBILITY HOW CHARMING. 

TuKE — " Cornwallis' Lament for Colonel Muirhead." 

I. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Dearest Nancy ! thou can'st tell, 
But distress with horrors arming, 

Thou hast also known too well. 
Fairest flower, behold the lily. 

Blooming in the sunny ray — 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 
Tune—" Charlie Gordon's welcome hame." 

L 

Out over the Forth I look to the north, [me ? 

But what is the north and its Highlands to 
The south nor the east gie ease to my breast. 

The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

II. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, [be; 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. 

The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



THE TITHER MORN. 
To a Highland Air. 

I. 

The tlther morn, 

When I forlorn, 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow, 

I'd see my Jo, 
Beside me, gain the gloaming. 

But he sae trig, 

Lap o'er the rig. 
And dawtingly did cheer me, 

When I, what reck. 

Did least expec'. 
To see my lad sae near me. 

II. 

His bonnet he, 

A thought ajee, 
Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me ; 

And I, I wat, 

Wi' faintness grat. 
While in his grips he press'd me. 

Deil tak' the war ! 

I late and air, 
Hae wish'd since Jock departed ; 

But now as glad 

I'm wi' my lad. 
As short syne broken-hearted. 

in. 

Fu' aft at e'en 

Wi' dancin' keen. 
When a' were blithe and merry, 

I car'd na by, 

Sae sad was I 
In abscence o' my dearie. 

But, praise be blest, 

My mind's at rest, 
I'm happy wi' my Johnny t 

At kirk and fair, 

I'se ay be there. 
And be as canty 's ony. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



137 



THE OARDIN' O 'T. 

Tune — " Salt-fish and dumplings." 
I. 
I COFT a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a wat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 

II. 

For though his locks be lyart gray, 

And tho' his brow be held aboon ; 
Yet I hae seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't. 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't 
When ilk ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 



THE WEARY FUND O* TOW. 

Tune—*' The weary Pund o' Tow." 

I. 

The weary pund, the weary pund. 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin her tow. 
I bought my wife a stane o' lint 

As gude as e'er did grow ; 
And a' that she has made o' that, 

Is ae poor pund o' tow. 

II. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyont the ingle low. 
And ay she took the tither souk. 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 

III. 

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 

IV. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't — 
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 
And or I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow. 

The weary pund. the weary pund. 

The weary pund o' tow, 
I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 



SAE FAR AWA. 
Tune— '• Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." 
I. 
O, SAD and heavy should I part, 
But for her sake sae far awa ; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart. 
My native land sae far awa. 



Thou that of a' things Maker art, 
That form'd this fair sae far awa, 

Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 
At this my way sae far awa. 

II. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her that's far awa : 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, 

While, oh ! she is sae awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 



UCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN 
A NATION 

Tune—" A parcel of rogues in a nation." 

I. 

Fareweel to a' the Scottish fame, 
Fareweel our ancient glory, 

Fareweel e'en to the Scottish name, 
Sae fam'd in martial story, 

Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands. 
And Tweed rins to the ocean. 

To mark where England's province stands- 
Such a parcel of rogoes in a nation. 

II. 

What force or guile could not subdue, 

Thro' many warlike ages. 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

For hireling traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain. 

Secure in valor's station ; 
But English gold has been our bane — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 

III. 

O would, or I had seen the day, 

That treason thus could fell us, 
My auld gray head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, to my last hour, 

I'll mak' this declaration ; 
We're bought and sold for English gold, — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER. 
Tune—" The Job of J ourney-work." 

Altho' my back be at the wa', 

And tho' he be the fautor ; 
Altho' my back be at the wa', 

Yet, here's his health in water ! 
O I wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sae brawlie he could flatter; 
Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, 

And dree the kintra clatter. 
But tho' my back be at the wa', 

And the' he be the fautor ; 
But tho' my back be at the wa', 

Yet here's his health in water! 



138 



BURNS' POEMS 



THE LASS OF ECOLEFEOHAN 
Tune — " Jacky Latin." 

I. 

Gat ye me, O gat ye me, 

O gat ye me wi' naething ? 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutcher has 

A hich house and a laigh ane, 
A* for bye, my bonnie sel'. 

The toss of Ecclefechan. 

II. 

haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 

haud your tongue and jauner ; 

1 held the gate till you I met, 
Syne I began to wander : 

I tint my whistle and my sang, 

1 tint my peace and pleasure ; 

But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, 
Wad airt me to my treasure. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE 

Tune—" If thou'lt play me fair play." 

I. 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie, 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head his bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 

IL 

Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie ; 
And a' the hills wi' echo roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honor, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie. 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 

in. 

The sun a backward course shall take, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie, 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go, for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
And for your lawful king, his crown, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY 

BONNIE LASS. 

TuNK— " Laggan Burn." 

I. 

Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 
Gude night, and joy be wi' thee ; 

I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door, 
To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

O dinna think, my pretty pink. 
But I can live without thee : 



I vow and swear I dinna care 
How lang ye look about ye. 

n. 

Thou'rt ay sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry ; 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee ; 
Depending on some higher chance — 

But fortune may betray thee. 

in. 

I ken they scorn thy low estate, 

But that does never grieve me ; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I enjoy it : 
rU fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want. 

As lang's I get employment. 

IV. 

But far off fowls hae feathers fair, 

And ay until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove waur than I am. 
But at twal at night, when the moon shines 
bright. 

My dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
For the man who lo'es his mistress weel, 

Nae travel makes him weary. 



ADDRESS TO A YOUNG LADY. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives. 
In sacred strains and tuneful members joined. 

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives. 
Rich is the tribute of a grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song : 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears. 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



SONG. 

As DOWN the burn they took their way, 

And through the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay. 

And love was ay the tale. 
With ** Mary, when shall we return. 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you." 



O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS, 
Tune—" Cordwainer's March." 

I. 

O LAY thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 



BURNS' POEMS 



139 



And swear on thy white hand, lass, 

That thou wilt be my ain. 
A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 

Unless thou be my ain. 

II. 

There's monie a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast, 
Forever to remain. 

O lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass • 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
And thou wilt be my ain. 



TO OH L ORIS. 

•Ti8 Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms). 

To join the friendly few. 

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 

Chill came the tempest's lower ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower). 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more. 
Still much is left behind * 



Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— 
The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow 
On conscious honor's part ; 

And — dearest gift of heaven below — 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refined of sense and taste. 
With every Muse to rove : 

And doubly were the poet blest, 
These joys could he improve. 



PEG-A-RAMSET. 
TuNB— " Cauld is the e'enin' blast.*' 



Cauld is the e'enin' blast 
O' Boreas o'er the pool. 

And dawnin' it is dreary. 

When birks are bare at Yule. 

II. 

O bitter blaws the winter blast 
When bitter bites the frost. 

And in the mirk and dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost. 

III. 

Ne'er sae murky blew the night 
That drifted o'er the hill. 

But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsev 
Gat grist to her mill. 



GLOSSARY 



The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo, is 
commonly spelled ou. The French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, 
is marked oo, or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or 
followed by an e mute after a single consonant; sounds generally like the broad English a in 
wall. The Scottish diphthong <b, always, and ea, very often, sound like the French e mascu- 
line. The Scottish diphthong ey, sounds like the Latin ei. 



A\ All. 

Aback, away, aloof. 

Abeigh, at a shy distance. 

Aboon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Addle, putrid water, &c. 

Ae, one. 

Aff, off; Affloof, unpremeditated. 

Afore, before. 

AfU oft. 

Aften, often. 

Agley, off the right line ; wrong. 

Aiblins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Airle-penny, Airles, earnest-money. 

Aim, iron. 

Aith, an oath. 

AiU, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse. 

Aizle, a hot cinder. 

Alake, alas. 

Alane, alone. 

Akwart, awkward. 

Amaist, almost. 

Amang, among. 

An\ and ; if. 

Ance, once. 

jlne, one ; and. 

Anent, over against. 

Anither, another. 

Ase, ashes. 

Asklent, asquint ; aslant. 

Asteer, abroad ; stirring, 

Atkart, athwart. 

Aught, possession ; as, in a' my aught, in all my pos- 
session. 

Auldlang syne, olden time, days of other years. 

Auld, old. 

Auldfarran, or auld /arrant, sagacious, cunning, pru- 
dent. 

Ava, at all. 

Awa\ away. 

Awfu*, awful. 

Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. 

Awnie, bearded. 

Ayont, beyond. 



BA\ Ball. 

Sockets, ash boards. 

Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning. 

Back, returning. 

Bad, did bid. 

Baide, endured, did stay. 

Baggie, the belly. 

Bainie, having large bones, stout. 

Bdirn, a child. 

Bairntime, a family of children, a brood. 



Baith, both. 

Ban, to swear. 

Bane, bone. 

Bang, to beat ; to strive. 

Bardie, diminutive of bard. 

Barefit, barelboted. 

Barmie, of, or like barm. 

Batch, a crew, a gang. 

BatLt, bots. 

Baudrons, a cat. 

Bauld, bold. 

Bawk, bank. 

Baivs^nt, having a white stripe down the face. 

Be, to let be ; to give over; to cease. 

Bear, barley. 

Beastie, diminutive of beast. 

Beet, to add fuel to fire. 

Beld, bald. 

Belyve, by and by. 

Ben, into the spence or parlor; a spence. 

Benlomond, a noted mountain in Dumbartonshire. 

Bethatikit, grace after meat. 

Beuk, a book. 

Bicker, a kind of wooden dish ; a short race. 

Bie, or Bield, shelter. 

Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 

Big, to build. 

Biggin, building ; a house. 

Biggit, built. 

Bill, a bull. 

Billie, a brother ; a young fellow, 

Bing, a heap of gram, potatoes, <fcc. 

Birk, birch. 

Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw, a small wood. 

Birkie, a clever fellow. 

Birring, the noise of partridges, &c. when they spring. 

Bit, crisis, nick of time. 

Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 

Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf; a term of contempt. 

Blastit, blasted. 

Blate, bashful, sheepish 

Blather, bladder. 

Blaud, a flat piece of any thing; to slap. 

Blaw, to blow, to boast. 

Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum. 

Bleert and blin\ bleared and blind. 

Bleezing, blazing. 

Blellum, an idle talking fellow. 

Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense. 

Bletli'rin, talking idly. 

Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to look kindly ; 

to shine by fits. 
Blinker, a term of contempt. 
Blinkin, smirking. 
Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get annually, on 

the king's birth-day, a blue cloak or gown, with a 

badge. 
Bluid, blood. 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person. 
Blype, a shred, a large piece. 
141 



142 



GLOSSARY 



Bock, to vomit, to gush intermittently. 

Jiocked, gushed, vomited. 

Bodle, a small gold coin. 

Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins. 

Bonnie, or bonny, handsome, beautiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a small jan- 

nock, or loaf made of oatmeal. 
Boord, a board. 
Boortree, the shrub elder; planted much of old in 

hedges of barn-yards, &c. 
Boost, behoved, must needs. 
Bore, a hole in the wall. 
Botch, an angry tumor. 
Bousing, drinking. 
Bow-kail, cabbage. 
Bowl, bended, crooked. 
Brackens, fern. 

Brae, a declivity; a precipice ; the slope of a hill. 
Braid, broad. 
Braindg't, reeled forward. 
Braik, a kind of harrow. 
Braindge, to run rashly forward. 
Brak, broke, made insolvent. 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses. 
Brash, a sudden illness. 
Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury. 
Bratv, fine, handsome. 

Brau'ly, or brawlie, very well ; finely ; heartily. 
Brazie, a morbid sheep. 
Breastie, dimiinitive of breast. 
Breastit, did spring up or forward. 
Breckan, fern. 

Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible spell. 
Breeks, breeches. 
Brent, smooth. 
Breivin, brewing, 
^rte, juice, liquid. 
Brig, a bridge. 
Brunstane, brimstone. 
Brisket, the breast, the bosom. 
Brither, a brother. 
Brock, a badger. 
Brogue, a hum; a trick. 
Broo, broth ; liquid ; water. 
Broose, broth; a race at country weddings, who shall 

first reach the bridegroom-s house on returning from 

church. 
Browster-wives, ale-house wives. 
Brugh, a burgh. 
Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt. 
Brust, to burst; burst. 
Buchan-bullers, tiie boiling of the sea among the rocks 

on the coast of Buchan. 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 
Bught, a pen. 
Bughtin-time. the time of collecting the sheep m the 

pens to be milked. 
Buirdly, stout-made; broad-made. 
Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in the summer 

evenings. 
Bumming, humming as bees. 
Bummle, to blunder. 
Bummler, a blunderer. 
Bunker, a window-seat. 
Burdies, diminutive of birds. 
Bure, did bear. 
Burn, water; a rivulet. 

Burnewin, i. e. burn the wind, a black-smith. 
Burnie, diminutive of burn. 
Buskie, bushy. 
Buskit, dressed. 
Busks, dresses. 
Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle. 
Buis, shelter. 
But, bat, with ; without 

But an'' ben, the country kitchen and parlor. 
By himsel, lunatic, distracted. 
Byke, a bee-hive. 
Byre, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen. 

C. 
C^'. To call, to name ; to drive. 
CaH, or ca'd, called, driven ; calved. 
Cadger, a carrier. 
Cadie. or caddie, a person ; a young fellow. 



Caff, chaff. 

Caird, a tinker. 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones. 

Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves. 

Callan, a boy. 

Caller, fresh; sound ; refreshing. 

Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild; dexterous 

Cannilie, dexterously ; gently. 

Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry. 

Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 

Cap-stane, cope-stone; key-stone. 

Careerin, cheerfully. 

Carl, an old man. 

Carlin, a stout old woman. 

Cartes, cards. 

Caudron, a caldron. 

Cauk arid keel, chalk and red clay. 

Cauld, cold. 

Caup, a wooden drmking-vessel. 

Cesses, taxes. 

Chanter, a part of a bag-pipe. 

Chap, a person, a fellow; a blow. 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 

Cheekit, cheeked. 

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp. 

Chiel, or cheel. a young fellow. 

Chimin, or chimlie, a fire-grate, a fire-place. 

Chimla-lug, the fireside. 

Chittering, shivering, trembling. 

Chockin, choking. 

Choiv, to chew ; cheek for chow, side by side. 

Chujfie, fat-faced. 

Clachan, a small village about a church; a hamlet. 

Claise, or claes, clothes. 

Claith, cloth. 

Claithing, clothing. 

Claivers, nonsense; not speaking sense. 

Clap, clapper of a mill. 

Clarkit, wrote. 

Cla.<ih, an idle tale, the story of the day. 

Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story. 

Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. 

Claut, to clean ; to scrape. 

Clouted, scraped. 

Clavers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scratch. 

deed, to clothe. 

deeds, clothes. 

Cleekit, having caught. 

CZ/«A:m, jerking; clinking. 

Clinkumhcll, he who rings the church bell. 

Clips, shears. 

Clishmadavcr, idle conversation. 

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle. 

Clockin, hatching. 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. 

Clootie, an old name for the Devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. 

Cluds, clouds, 

Coaxin, wheedling. 

Coble, a fishing-tioal 

Cockernony, a lock of hair tied upon a girl's head • 

cap. 
Cofl, bought. 
Cog, a wooden dish. 
Coggie, diminutive of cog. 
Coila, from Kyle, a districlof Ayrshire; so called, sahh 

tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, a Pictish monarch. 
Collie, a general, and sometimes a particular name foi 

country curs. 
Collieshangie, quarrelling, an uproar. 
Commaun, command. 
Cood, the cud. 

Corf, a blockhead ; a ninny. 
Cookit, appeared, and disappeared, by fits. 
Coost, did cast. 
Coot, the ancle or foot. 
Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish :— a/so, those fowla 

whose legs are clad with feathers, are said to be 

cootie. 
Corbies, a species of the crow. 



GLOSSARY 



143 



Core, corps; party; clan. 

Corn'U fed with oats. 

Cotur, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cottage. 

Couthie. kind, loving. 

Cove, a cave. 

Cowe. to terrify; to keep under, to lop; a fright; a 
branch of furze, hrooin, Sec. 

Cowp, to barter; to tumble over ; a gang. 

Cowpit, tumbled. 

Cowrin, cowering. 

Cowt, a colt. 

Cozie, snug. • 

CozUy, snugly. 

Crabbil, crabbed, fretful. 

Crack, conversation ; to converse. 

Crackin, conversing. 

Craft, or croft, a field near a hou.se {in old husbandry). 

Craiks, criesor calls incessantly; a bird. 

Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, doggrel verses. 

Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel. 

Crankous. fretful, captious. 

Cranreuch. the hoar-frost. 

Crap, a crop ; to crop. 

Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook. 

Creel^ a basket ; to have one's wits in a creel, to be craz- 
ed ; to be fascinated. 

Creepie-stool, the same as cutty-stool. 

Creeshie, greasy. 

Crood. or croud, to coo as a dove. 

Croon, a. hollow and continued moan; to make a noise 
like the coiUinued roar of a bull ; to hum a tune. 

Crooning, humming. 

Crouchie, crook-backed. 

Crouse. cheerful ; courageous. 

Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously. 

Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and boiled water, 
sometimes from the broth of beef, mutton, &.c. 

Crowd ie-time. breakfast time. 

Crowlin, crawling. 

Crummock. a cow with crooked horns. 

Crump, hard and brittle; spoken of bread. 

Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel 

Cuif a blockhead, a ninny. 

Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head. 

Curchie, a courtesy. 

Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practiced in 
Scotland, called curliiig. 

Curlie. curled, whose liair falls naturally in ringlets. 

Curling, a well known game on the ice. 

Curmurring. murmuring; a slight rumbling noise. 

Curpin, the crupper. 

Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon. 

Cutty, short; a spoon broken in the middle. 

Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance. 

D. 

DADDIE, a father. 

Dajftn, merriment; foolishness. 

Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish. 

Daimen, rare, now and then ; daimenicker, an ear of 

corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humored, agreeable. 
Daise, daez, to stupify. 
Dales, plains, valleys. 
Darkling, darkling. 
Daud. to thrash, to abuse. 
Dour, to dare. 
Daurt. dared. 

Daurg, or daurk, a day's labor. 
Davoc, David. 
Dawd. a large piece. 
Dawtit, or dawtet. fondled, caressed. 
Dearies, diminutive of dears. 
Dearthfu\ dear. 
Deave. to deafen. 

Deil-ma-care .' no matter ; for all that. 
Ddeerit. delirious. 
Descrice, to describe, 
Dight, to wipe ; to clean corn from chaff. 
Dight. cleaned from chaff. 
Ding, to worst, to push. 
Dink, neat, tidy, trim. 
Dinna, do not. 

Dirl. a slight tremulous stroke or pain. 
Dizen, or dizz^n. a dozen. 
Doited, slupified, hebetated 
Dolt, slupified, crazed. 



Donsie, unlucky. 

Dool, sorrow ; to sing dool, to lament, to mourn 

Dooi, doves. 

Dorly, saucy, nice. 

Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent. 

Doucely, soberly, prudently. 

Dought, was or were able. 

Doup, backside. 

Doup-skelper. one that strikes the tail. 

Dour and din, sullen and sallow. 

Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn. 

Dow, am or are able, can. , 

Dowjf, pithless, wanting- force. 

Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &.C., half asleep. 

Downa, am or are not able, cannot. 

Doylt. stupid. 

Dozen'' t. slupified, impotent. 

Drop, a drop; to drop. 

Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle among wet. &c. 

Dropping, dropping. 

Draunting. drawling; of a slow enunciation. 

Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 

Dreigh, tedious, long about it. 

Dribble, drizzling; slaver. 

Drift, a drove. 

Droddum, the breech. 

Drone, part of a bagpipe. 

Droop-rumprt, that drops at the crupper. 

Droukit, wet. 

Drounting, drawling. 

Drouth, thirst, drought. 

Drucken, drunken. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal and water mixed in a raw stale. 

Drunt, pet, sour humor. 

Dub, a small pond. 

Duds, rags, clothes. 

Duddie, ragged. 

Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven. 

Dunted, beaten, boxed. 

Dush, to push as a ram, &c. 

Diisht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c. 



E^E, the eye. 

Een, the eyes. 

E^enin, evening. 

Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits. 

Eild, old age. 

Elbuck, the elbow. 

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful. 

Eller, an elder, or church officer- 

En', end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh, enough. 

Especial, especially. 

Ettle, to try, to attempt. 

Eydent, diligent. 

F. 
FA', fall ; lot ; to fall. 
Fa's, does fall ; water-falls. 
FaddomH, fathomed. 
Fae. a foe. 
Faem, foam. 
Faiket, unknown. 
Fairin, a fairing; a present. 
Fallow, fellow. 
Fund, did find. 

Farl. a cake of oaten bread, *c. 
Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble ; to care for. 
Fasht, troubled. 
Fasleren e'en, Fasten's Even 
Fauld, a fold ; to fold 
Faulding, folding. 
Faut, fault. N 

Faute, want, lack. 
Fawsont. decent, seemly. 
Feat, a field ; smooth 
Fearfu\ frightful. 
Fear't, frighted. 
Feat, neat, spruce 
Fecht. to fight. 
Fechtin. fighting. 
Feck, many, plenty. 

Fecket. an under waistcoat with sleeve*. 
Feck/'u', large, brawny, stout. 



144 



GLOSSARY. 



Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 

Feckly, weakly. 

Fe^, a fig. 

Feide, feud, enmity. 

Fehrie. stout, vigorou?, healthy. 

Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately under the 
skin ; a field pretty level, on the side or top of a hill. 

Fen, successful struggle ; fight. 

Fend, to live comfortably. 

Ferlie, or ferley., to wonder ; a wonder ; a term of con- 
tempt. 

Fetch, to pull by fits. 

Fetch't, pulled intermittently. 

Fidge, to fidget. 

Fiel, sot"t, smooth. 

Fient, fiend, a petty oath. 

Fier, sound, healthy; a brother; a friend. 

Fissle, to make a rustling noise ; to fidget; a bustle. 

Fit, a foot. 

FitUe-lan\ the nearer horse of the hindmost pair in the 
plough. 

Fizz, to make a hissing noise like fermentation. 

Flainen, flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner. 

Fleech'd, supplicated. 

Fleechin, supplicating. 

Fleesh, a fleece. 

Fleg, a kick, a random. 

Flether, to decoy by fair words. 

Fletherin, flattering. 

Fley, to scare, to frighten. 

Flichter, to flutter, as young nestlings when their dam 
approaches. 

Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters. 

Flinging-tree, a piece of timber hung by way of par- 
tition between two horses in a stable ; a flail. 

Flisk, to fret at the yoke, Fliskit, fretted. 

Flitter, to vibrate like the wings of small birds. 

Flittering, fluttering, vibrating. 

Flunkie, a servant in livery. 

Fodgel, squat and plump. 

Foord, a ford. 

Forbears, forefathers. 

Forbye, besides. 

For/aim, distressed; worn out, jaded. 

For/oughten, fatigued. 

Forgather, to meet, to encounter with. 

Forgie, to forgive. 

Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 

Fother, fodder. 

Fou, full ; drunk. 

Foughten, troubled, harassed. 

Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than enough. 

Foiv, a bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork. 

Frae, from ; off. 

Frammit, strange, estranged from, at enmity with. 

Freath, froth. 

Frien\ friend. 

JFw', full. 

Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &c. 

Fuff. to blow intermittently. 

Fi^t, did blow. 

Funnie, full of merriment. 

Fur, a furrow. 

Furm, a form, bench. 

Fyke, trifling cares; to piddle, to be in a fuss about 
trifles. 

Fyle, to soil, to dirty. 

FyPt, soiled, dirtied. 

G. 

GAB, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly. 

Gaher-hinzie, an old man. 

Gadsman. a ploughboy, the boy that drives the horses 

in the plough. 
Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; g'oen, or gane, gone ; gaun, 

going. 
Gael, or gate, way, manner ; road. 
Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the bottom 

of a gow^n. &c. 
Gang, to go, to walk. 
Gar, to make, to force to. 
Gar't, forced to. 
Garten, a garter. 

Gash, wise, sagacious ; talkative ; to converse 
Gashin, conversing. 
Gaucy, jolly, large. 



Gaud, a plougn. 

Gear, riches; goods of any kind. 

Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or scorn. 

Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folks, gentry. 

Genty^ elegantly formed, neat. 

Geordie, a guinea. 

Get, a child, a young one. 

Ghaist, a ghost. 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; gien, given. 

Gi/tie, diminutive of gift. 

Giglett, playful girls. 

Gillie, diminutive of gill. 

Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy or girl, a romp- 
ing lad, a hoiden. 

Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. 

Gin, if; against. 

Gipsey, a young girl. 

Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, agony, &c. 

Girning, grinning. 

Gizz. a periwig. 

Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. 

Glaive, a sword. 

Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romping. 

Glaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass. 

Glaum, to snatch greedily. 

Glauni'd, aimed, snatched. 

Gleck, sharp, ready. 

Gleg, sharp, ready. 

Gleib, glebe. 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley. 

Gley, a squint; to squint ; a-gley, oflfal a side, wrong. 

Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech. 

Glint, to peep. 

Glinted, peeped. 

Glintin, peeping. 

Gloamin, the twilight. 

Glou^r, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look. 

Gloivred, looked, stared. 

Glunsh, a frown, a sour look. 

Goaian, looking round with a strange, inquiring gaze; 
staring stupidly. 

Gowan, the flower of the wild daisy, hawk -weed, &c. 

Goivany, daisied, abounding with daisies. 

Gowd, gold. 

Gowff, the game of Golf; to strike as the bat does the 
ball at golf. 

Goivff^d, struck. 

Goivk, a cuckoo; a term of contempt. 

Gowl, to howl. 

Grane. or grain, a groan ; to groan. 

Grained and grunted, groaned and granted. 

Graining, groaning. 

Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning stables. 

Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear. 

Grannie, grandmother. 

Grape, to grope. 

Orapit, groped. 

Orat, wept, shed tears. 

Great, intimate, familiar. 

Oree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to be decidedly victor, 

OreeH, agreed. 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 

Greetin, crying, weeping. 

Orippet, catched, seized. 

Groat, to get the whistle ofone^s groat, to play a losing 
game. 

Oronsome, loathsomely, grim. 

Orozet, a gooseberry. 

Orumph, a grunt; to grunt. 

Grumphie, a sow, 

Orun\ ground. 

Grutistane, a grindstone. 

Gruntle, the phiz; a grunting noise. 

Orunzie, mouth. 

Grushie, thick; of thriving growth. 

Gude, the Supreme Being ; good. 

Guid, good. 

Guid-moming, good morrow. 

Guid-e^en, good evening. 

Guidman and guidwife, the master and mistress of the 
house ; young guidman, a man newly married. 

Guid-urillie, liberal ; cordial. 

Guid/ather, guid-mothcr, father-in-law, and mother- 
in-law. 



GLOSSARY. 



145 



Gully, or gullie, a large knife. 
Gumlie, muddy. 
Gusty, lasteiul. 

H. 

HA\ hall. 

Ha'-BibLe, the great Bible that lies in the hall. 

Hae, to have. 

Haen, had, the participle. 

Haet, fient haet, a petty oath of negation; nothing. 

Haffet. the temple, the side of the head. 

Hafflins, nearly half, partly. 

Hag, a scar or gulf in mosses, and moors. 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the stomach of a 

cow or sheep. 
Hain, to spare, to save. 
Haiii'd, spared. 
Hairst, harvest. 
Haith, a petty oath. 

Haivers, non.sense, speaking without thought. 
Hal\ or hald, an abiding place. 
Hale, whole, tight, healthy. 
Haly, holy. 
Hame, home. 
Hallan, a particular partition-wall in a cottage, or 

more properly a seat of turf at the outside. 
Hallowmas. Hallow-eve. the 31st of October. 
Hamely, homely, affable. 
Han'', or haun\ hand. 
Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c., to wrap, 

to cover; to hop. 
Happer, a hopper. 
Happing, hopping. 
Hap step an^ hup, hop skip and leap. 
Harkit, hearkened. 
Ham, very coarse linen. 
Hash, a fellow that neither knows hov\r to dress nor 

act with propriety. 
Hastit, hastened. 
Hand, to hold. 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands; valleys. 
Hanrl, to drag; to peel. 
Haurlin, peeling. 

Haverel, a half-witted person; half-witted. 
Havins, good manners, decorum, good sense. 
Hawkie. a cow, properly one with a while face. 
Heapit, heaped. 

Healsome, healthful, wholesome. 
Hearse, hoarse. 
HearH, hear it. 
Heather, heath. 
Hech! oh ! strange. 
Hecht, promised ; to foretell something that is to be got 

or given; foretold; the thing foretold ; offered. 
Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a number of sharp 

pins, used in dressing hemp, flax, &.c. 
Heeze, to elevate, to raise. 
Helm, the rudder or helm. 
Herd, to tend flocks; one who tends flocks. 
Herrin, a herring. 
Herry, to plunder; most properly to plunder birds' 

nests. 
Herryment, plundering, devastation. 
Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, of any sort. 
Het, hot. 

Heiigh, a crag, a coalpit. 
Hilch, a hobble ; to halt. 
Hilchin, halting 
Himsel, himselt. 
Hiney, honey. 
Hing, to hang. 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to creep. 
Hissel, so many cattle as one person can attend. 
Histie, dry ; chapped ; barren. 
Hitch, a loop, a knot. 
Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl. 
Hoddin, the motion of a sage countr>'man riding on a 

cart-horse; humble. 
Hog-score, a kind of distance line, in curling, drawn 
I across the rink. 

1 Hog-shonther, a kind of horse play, by justling with 

the shoulder ; to justle. 
Hool, outer skin or case, a nut-shell; a peas-cod. 
\ Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 

Hooliel take leisure, stop. 
, Hoard, a hoard ; to hoard. 
Hoordit, hoarded. ^ 



Horn, a spoon made of horn, 

Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. 

Host, or hoast. to cough ; a cough. 

Hostin, coughing. 

Hosts, coughs. 

Hotch'd, turned topsyturvy ; blended, mixed. 

Iloughmagandie, fornication. 

Houlet, an owl. 

Housie, diminutive of house. 

Hove, to heave, to swell. 

Hnv'd, heaved, swelled. 

Howdie, a midwitie. 

Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell. 

Howfhackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a horse, &<» . 

Hou'ff, a tippling house ; a house of resort. 

Hoivk, to dig. 

Howkit, digged. 

Howkin, digging. 

HowLet, an owl. 

Hoy, to urge. 

Hoy't, urged. 

Hoyse, to pull upwards. 

Hoyte, to amble crazily. 

Hughoc, diminutive of Hugh. 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 

Hurdies, the loins ; the crupper. 

Hushion, a cushion. 



r, in, 

Icker, an ear of corn. 

ler-oe, a great-grandchild. 

Ilk, or ilka, each, every. 

Ill-ivillie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly. 

Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 

Ingle, fire ; fire-place. 

Ise, I shall or will. 

Ilher, other; one another. 

J. 
JAD, jade; also a familiar term among country folks 

for a giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 
Jaukin, trifling, dallying. 

Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk as agitated water. 
Jaxv, coarse raillery ; to pour out; to shut, to jerk as 

water. 
Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short gown. 
Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump ; slender in the waist ; handsome. 
Jimps, easy stays. 
Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner; a sudden turnmg; a 

corner. 
Jinker, that turns quickly ; a gay, sprightly girl ; a wag. 
Jinkin, dodging. 
Jirk, a jerk. 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife. 
Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head. 
Jow, tojow, a verb which includes both the swinging 

motion and pealing sound of a large bell. 
Jundie, to justle. 

K. 

Kj9E, a daw. 

Kail, colewort; a kind of broth. 

Kail-runt, the stem of colewort. 

Kain, fowls, &c., paid as rent by a farmer. 

Kebhnck, a cheese. 

Keckle, to giggle ; to titter. 

Keek, a peep, to peep. 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spiirits, said to haunt 

fords and terries at night, especially in storms. 
Ken, to know ; kend or kenned, knew. 
Kennin, a small matter. 
Kenspeckle, well known, easily known. 
Ket, matted, hairy; a fleece of wool. 
Kilt, to truss up the clothes. 
Kimmer. a young girl, a gossip. 
Kin, kindred; kin\ kind. adj. 

King"s-hood, a certain part of the entrails of an ox, &c. 
Kinlra, coiuUry. 
Kintra eooser, country stallion. 
Kirn, the harvest supper; a churn. 
Kirsen, to christen, or baptize. 
Kist, a chest; a shop counter. 
Kitchen, anything that eats with bread; to serve for 

soup, gravy, &c. 



146 



GLOSSARY 



Kith, kindred. 

Kittle, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt. 

Kittlin, a young cat. 

Kiuttle, to cuddle. 

Kiuttlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. 

Knap, to strike smartly, a smart blow. 

Knappin-hammer, a hammer for breaking stones. 

Knowe, a small round hillock. 

Knurl, a dwarf. 

Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 

Kyte, the b^-lly. 

Kythe, to discover ; to show one's self. 



LADDIE, diminutive of lad. 

Laggen. the angle between the side and bottom of a 

wooden dish. 
Laigh, low. 

Lairing, wading, and sinking in snow, mud, &c. 
Laith. loath. 

Laithfu\ bashful, sheepish. 

Lallans, the Scottish dialect of the English language. 
Lambie. diminutive of lamb. 
Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a limpit. 
Lan\ land ; estate. 

Lane, lone ; 7ny lane thy lane, &c., myself alone, &c. 
Lanely, lonely. 

Lang, long ; to think lang., to long, to weary. 
Lap, did leap. 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. 
Laverock, the lark. 
Laivin, shot, reckoning, bill. 
Latvian, lowland. 
Lea'e, to leave. 
Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 
Lea-rig, grassy ridge. 
Lear, (pronounce lare,) learning. 
Lee-lang, live-long. 
Leesome, pleasant. 
Leeze-me, a plirase of congratulatory endearment; I am 

happy in thee, or proud of thee. 
Leister, a three-pronged dart for striking fish. 
Leugh, did laugh. 
Leuk, a look ; to look. 
Libbet, gelded. 
Lift, the sky. 

Lightly, sneeringly; to sneer at. 
Lilt, a ballad; a tune; to sing. 
Limmer, a kept mistress, a strumpet. 
LimpH, limped, hobbled. 
Link, to trip along. 
Linkin, tripping. 
Linn, a water-fall; a precipice. 
Lint, flax ; lint t' the bell, flax in flower. 
Lintwhite. a linnet. 

Loan, or loanin, the place of milking. 
Loof, the palm of the hand. 
Loot, did let. 
Loaves, plural of loof 

Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of easy virtue. 
Loup, jump, leap. 
Lowe, a flame. 
Lowin, flaming. 

Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 
Lowse, to loose. 
Lows' d, loosed. 
Lug, the ear ; a handle. 
Lugget, having a handle. 
Luggie, a small wooden dish with a handle. 
Lum, the chimney. 

Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &c. 
Lunt, a column of smoke; to smoke. 
Luntin, smooking. 
Lyart, of a mixed color, gray. 



MAE, more. 
Mair, more. 
Maist, most, almost. 
Maistly, mostly. 
Mak, to make. 
Makin, making. 
Mailen, a farm. 
Mallie, Molly. 
Mang, among. 



Manse, the parsonage house, where the mmister live*. 

Manteele, a mantle. 

Mark, marks, (This and several other nouns which in 

English require an s, to form the plural, are in Scotch, 

like the loords sheep, deer, the same in both fiumbers.) 
Marled, variegated; spotted. 
Mar's year, the year 1715. 
Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn. 
Mask, to mash, as malt, &.c. 
Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maud, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &c 
Maukin. a hare. 
Maun, must. 
Mavis, the thrush. 
Maw, to mow. 
Maivin, mowing. 
Meere, a mare. 
Meikle, meickle, much. 
Melancholious, mournful. 
Milder, corn, or grain of any kind, sent to the null to 

be ground. 
Mell, to meddle. Also a mailer for pounding barley 

in a stone trough. 
Melvie, to soil with meal. 
Men'', to mend. 

Mense, good manners, decorum. 
Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent. 
Messin, a small dog. 
Midden, a dunghill. 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dunghill. 
Mim, prim, affectedly meek. 
Min\ mind; resemblance. 
MindH, mind it; resolved, intending. 
Mintiie, motiier, dam. 
Mirk, tnirkest, dark, darkest. 
Misca'', to abuse, to call names. 
Misca''d, abused. 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly. 
Misteuk, mistook. 
Mither, a motlier. 
Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 
Moistify, to moisten. 
Mony, or monie, many. 
Mools, dust, earth, the earth of the grave. To rake t* 

the mools ; to lay in the dust. 
Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 
Moorlan\ of or belonging to moors. 
Morn, the next day, to-morrow. 
Mou, the mouth. 
Moudiwort, a mole. 
Moiisie, diminutive of mouse. 
Muckle. or mickle. great, big, much. 
Musie, diminutive of muse. 
Muslin-kail, broth, composed simply of water, shelled 

barley, and greens. 
Mittchkin, an English pint. 
Mysel, myself. 

N. 
NA, no, not, nor. 
Nae, no, not any. 
Naething, or naithing, nothing. 
Naig, a horse. 
Nane, none. 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy, 
Negleckit, neglected. 
Neuk, a nook. 
Niest, next. 
Nieve, the fist. 
Nievefu', handfull. 

Niffer, an exchange ; to exchange, to barter. 
Niger, a negro. 

Nine-taiVd-cat, a hangman's whip. 
Nit, a nut. 

Norland, of or belonging to the north. 
NoticH, noticed. 
Nowte, black cattle. 



0', of 

Ochels, name of mountams. 

O haith, O faith ! an oath. 

Ony, or onie, any. 

Or, is often used for ere, before. 

Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can be spared. 

O't, of it. 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping. 



GLOSSARY. 



147 



Oursd, or oursels, ourselves. 

Outiers, cattle not housed. 

Ower, over; loo. 

Ower-hip. a way of fetching a blow with the hammer 

over the arm. 

P. 
PACK, intimate, familiar; twelve stone of wool. 
Fainch, paunch. 
Paitricic, a partridge. 
Pang, to cram. 
Parle, speech. 

Parrilch, oatmeal pudding, a well known Scotch dish. 
Pat, did put ; a pot. 
Pattle. or pettle, a plough-staff. 
Paughty, proud, iiaughty. 
Pauky. or pawkk, cunning, sly. 
PayH, paid ; beat. 

Peck, to fetch the breath short, as in an asthma. 
Peckan, the crop, the stomach. 
Peeim, peeling, the rind of fruit. 
Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 
Fettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff. 
FhiUbegs, short petticoats worn by the Highlandinen. 
Phraise, fair speeches, flattery ; to flatter. 
Phraisin, flattery. 

Pibroch, Highland war music adapted to the bagpipe. 
pickle, a small quantity. 
Pine, pain, uneasiness. 
Fit, to put. 

placad, a public proclamation. 
Flack, an old Scotch coin, the third part of a Scotch 

penny, twelve of which make an English penny. 
Plackless, peiniyless, without money. 
Platie, diminutive of plate. 
Flew, or pleugh, a plough. 
Fliskie, a trick. 
Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as the laws of 

Scotland allow. 
Foortith, poverty. 
Foil, to pull. 
Fouk, to pluck. 
Foussie, a hare, or cat. 
Pout, a poult, a chick. 
Pou^t, did pull. 
Fowthery, like powder. 
Fow, the head, the skull. 
Pownie, a little horse. 
Poivther, or pouther, powder. 
Preen, a pin. 
Prent, to print; print. 
Frie, to taste. 
Prie'd, tasted. 
Prief, proof 

Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute. 
Priggin. cheapening. 
Pritnsie, demure, precise. 
Propone, to lay down, to propose. 
Frouoses. provosts. 
Puddock-stool. a mushroom, fungus. 
Fund, pound ; pounds. 
Fyle, — a pyle o' caff, a single grain of chaflT. 



QUAT, to quit. 

Quak, to quake. 

Quey, a cow from one to two years old. 



RAGWEED, the herb ragwort. 
! Raible. to rattle nonsense. 
i Rair, to roar. 
I Raize, to madden, to inflame. 

Ram-feezl'd, tatigued ; overspread. 

Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward. 

Raploch. (properly) a coarse cloth ; but used as an ad- 
noun/or coarse. 

Rarely, excellently, very well. 

Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes. 

Ratton, a rat. 

Raucle, rasii ; stout; fearless. 
I Raught, reached. 
I Raw, a row. 
j iJax, to stretch. 
[ Ream, cream ; to cream. 

Reaming, brimful!, frothing. 
I Reave, rove. 

Rick, to heed 



Rede, counsel ; to counsel. 

Red-wat-shod, walking in blood over the shoe-tops. 

Red-iviid. stark mad. 

Ree. hali-drunk, fuddled. 

Reek, smoke. 

Rtekin, smoking. 

Reekit, smoked ; smoky. 

Remead, remedy. 

Requite, recjuited. 

Rtst, to stand restive. 

Rtstit. stood restive; stunted; witherec 

Restricked, restricted. 

Rew. to repent, to compassionate. 

Rief. reef, plenty. 

Rief randies, sturdy beggars. 

Rig. a ridge. 

Rigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain that crosses 

the saddle of a horse to support the spokes of a carl ; 

spare, withered, sapless. 
Rin, to run, to melt; rinnin, running. 
Rink, the course of the stones ; a term in curling on ice. 
Rip. a handfull of uiilhreshed corn. 
Riskil, made a noise like the tearing of roots. 
Rockin. spinning on the rock or distaff. 
Rood, stands likewise for the plural roods. 
Roon, a shred, a border or selvage. 
Roose, to praise, to commend. 
Roosty. rusty. 

Roun\ round, in the circle of neighborhood. 
Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold. 
Routkie, plentiful. 
Row, to roll, to wrap. 
RowH, rolled, wrapped. 
Rowte. to low, to bellow. 
Rowth, or routh, plenty. 
Rowtin, lowing. 
Rozet, rosin. 
Rung, a cudgel. 
Runkled, wrinkled. 

Runt, the stern of colewort or cabbage. 
Ruth, a woman's name; the book so called; sorrow 
Ryke, to reach. 

S. 
SAE, so. 
Saft, soft. 

Sair, to serve ; a sore. 
Sairly. or sairlie, sorely. 
SairH, served. 
Sark, a shirt; a shift. 
Sarkit, provided in shirts. 
Saugh, the willow. 
Saul, soul. 
Saumont, salmon. 
Saunt, a saint. 
Saut, salt, adj. salt. 
Saw. to saw. 
Sawin, sowing. 
Sax. six. 

Scaith, to damage, to mjure ; injury. 
Scar, acUff. 
Scaud. to scald. 
Scauld, to scold. 
Scaur, apt to be scared. 
Scawi, a scold ; a termigant. 
Scon, a cake of bread. 
Sconner, a loathing; to loathe. 
Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, &c. 
Screed, to tear ; a rent. 
Scrieve, to glide swii'tly along. 
Scrievin, gleesomely ; swiftly. 
Scrimp, to scant. 
Scrimpet. did scant; scanty. 
See'd, did see. 
Seizin, seizing. 

Sel, self; a body's sel, one's self alone. 
SellH. did sell. 
Sen\ to send. 

Sen't. I, &c., sent, or did send it; send it. 
Servan', servant. 
Settlin, settling ; to get a settling to be frighted into 

quietness. 
Sets, sets off, goes away. 
Shackled, distorted; shapeless. 
Skaird, a shred, a shard. 
Skangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting the tail 

of a dog, &c. into, by way of mischief, or to fright 

en him away. 



148 



GLOSSARY. 



Shaver, a humorous wag ; a barber. 

Shavi, to show ; a small wood in a hollow. 

Sheen, l)right, shining. 

Sheep-shank ; to think one^s self nae sheep-shank, to be 
conceited. 

Sherra-moor, sheriff-moor, the famous battle fought in 
the rebellion, A. D. 1715. 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice. 

Shiel, a shed. 

Shill, shrill. 

Shog, a shook ; a push off at one side. 

Shool. a shovel. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Shore, to offer, to threaten. 

Shored, offered. 

Shouther, tlie shoulder. 

Shure, did shear, shore. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 

Sidelins, sidelong, slanting. 

Siller, silver; money. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, a son. 

Sin', since. 

Skaith, see scaith, 

Skellum, a worthless fellow. 

Skelp, to strike, to slap; to walk with a smart trip- 
ping step ; a smart stroke. 

Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful term in female scolding. 

Skelpin, stepping, walking. 

Skiegh, or Skeigh, proud, nice, highmettled. 

Skinklin, a small portion. 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly. 

Skirling, shrieking, crying. 

SkirlH, shrieked. 

Sklent, slant; to run aslant, to deviate from truth. 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction. 

Skoiuh, freedom to converse without restraint ; range, 
scope. 

Skriegh, a scream ; to scream. 

Skyrin, shining; making a great show. 

Skyte, force, very Ibrcibic motion. 

Slae, a sloe. 

Slade, did slied. 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence. 

Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva. 

Slaw, slow. 

Slee, sly ; sleest, sliest, 

Sleekit, sleek ; sly. 

Sliddery, slippery. 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow from the plough. 

Slypet, fell. 

Sma\ small. 

Smtddum, dust, powder ; mettle, sense. 

Smiddy, a smithy. 

Smoor, to smother. 

Smoor''d, smothered. 

Smoutie, smutty, obscene, ugly. 

Smytrie, a numerous collection of small individuals. 

Snapper, to stumble, a stumble. 

Snash, abuse. Billingsgate. 

Snaw, snow; to snow. 

Snaw-broo, melted snow. 

Snawie, snowy. 

Sneck, snick, the latch of a door. 

Sned, to lop, to cut off. 

Sneeshin, snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 

Snell, bitter, biting. 

Snick-draiving, trick-contriving, crafty. 

Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly. 

Snood, a ribbon tor binding the hair. 

Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppressive 
slavery; to submit tamely, to sneak. 

Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly, to sneak. 

Snowk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 

Snowk-it, scented, snuffed. 

Sonsie, having sweet engaging looks ; lucky, jolly. 

Soom, to swim. 

Sooth, truth, a pretty oath. 

Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on the ear. 

Sovple, flexible; swift. 

Souter, a shoemaker. 

Sovjens, a dish made of oatmeal; the seeds of oatmeal 
soured, &.C., flummery. 

Sowp, a spoontull, a small quantity of any thing liquid. 

Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle. 



Soicther, solder; to solder, to cement. 

Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 

Spaul, a limb. 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire. 

Spaviet. having the spavin. 

Spean, spane, to wean. 

Speat. or spate, a sweeping torrent, after rain or thaw. 

Speel, to climb. 

Spence, the country parlor. 

Spier, to ask. to inquire. 

Sj>ierH, inquired. 

Splatter, a splutter, to splutter. 

Spleiighan, a tobacco-pouch. 

Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot. 

Sprackle. sprarhle, to clamber. 

Sprattle. to scramble. 

Spreckled, spotted, speckled. 

Spring, a quick air in music ; a Scottish reel. 

Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, something like rushes. 

Spriltie, full of spirit. 

Spunk, fire, mettle ; wit. 

Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery; joill-o^-wisp, or ignisfatuus. 

Spurtle, a stick used in making oatmeal pudding or 

porridge. 
Squad, a crew, a party. 

Squatter, to flutter in water, as a wild duck, &c. 
Squattle, to sprawl. 

Squeel, a scream, a screech; to scream. 
Stacher, to stagger. 
Stack, a rick ot corn, hay, &c. 
Staggie, the diminutive of stag. 
Stalwart, strong, stout. 
Stant, to stand ; stanH, did stand. 
Stane. a stone. 

Stang, an acute pain; a twinge ; to sting. 
Stank, did stink ; a pool of standing water. 
Stap. stop. 
Stark, stout. 

Startle, to run as cattle stung by the gad-fly. 
Staumrel, a blockhead ; hall-witted. 
Staw, did steal ; to surfeit. 
Stech, to cram the belly. 
Stechin, cramming. 
Steek, to shut ; a stitch. 
Steer, to molest ; to stir. 
Sleeve, firm, compacted. 
Stell, a still. 

Sten, to rear as a horse. 
Sten^t, reared. 

Stents, tribute ; dues of any kind. 
Stey, steep ; steyest, steepest. 
Stibble. stumble ; stibble-rig, the reaper in harvest who 

takes the lead. 
Stick an'' stow, totally, altogether. 
Stile, a crutch ; to halt, to lim[). 
Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winchester bushel. 
Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 
Stock, a plant or root of colewort, cabbage, &c. 
Stockin, a stocking; throwing the stockin, when the 

bride and bridegroom are put into bed, and the candle 

out, the Ibrmer throws a stocking at random among 

the company, and the person whom it strikes is the 

next that will be married. 
Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer. 
Stooked, made up in shocks, as corn. 
Stoor, sounding hollow, strong, and hoarse. 
Slot, an ox. 

Stoup, or stowp. a kind of jug or dish with a handle. 
Stoure, dust, more particularly dust in motion. 
Stowlitis, by stealth. 
Stown, stolen. 
Stoyte. to stumble. 
Strack, did strike. 

Strae. straw ; to die a fair strae death, to die in bed. 
Straik, did strike. 
Strut kit, stroked. 
Strappan, tall and handsome. 
Straught. straight, to straighten. 
Streek. stretched, tight; to stretch. 
Striddle, to straddle. 
Stroan. to spout, to piss. 
Stt'.ddie, an anvil. 
Stnmpie. diminutive of stump. 
Strunt. spirituous liquor of any kind ; to walk sturdily; 

huff, sullenness. 
Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 
Sturt, troii')!e; to molest. ' 



GLOSSARY. 



149 



Sturtin, frighted. 

Sucker^ sugar. 

Sud, sliould. 

Sv^h. ihe conliiiuf^d rushing noise of wind or water. 

Sut/iron, southern; an old name ibr the English nation. 

Swaird, sward. 

Swall'd, swelled. 

Swank, stately, jolly, i. 

Swankie, or swanLer, a tight strapping young fellow 

or girl. 
Swap, an exchange ; to barter. 
Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon. 
Swat, did sweat. 
Swatch, a sample. 
Swats, drink ; good ale. 
Sweaten, sweating. 

Sweer, lazy, averse ; dead-sweer, extremely averse. 
Swuor, swore, did swear. 
Swinge, to beat; to whip. 
Swirl, a curve; an eddying blast, or pool; a knot in 

wood. 
Swirlie, kaaggie, full of knots. 
Switk, get away. 
Swithtr, to hesitate in choice ; an irresolute wavering 

in choice. 
Syne, since, ago ; then. 



TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving into the heels 

of siioes. 
Tae. a toe ; threc-tat'd. having three prongs. 
Tairge, a target. 
Tak, to take ; takin, taking-. 
Tamtallan, the name of a mountain. 
Tangle, a sea-weed. 
Tap, the top. 

Tapetless. heedless, foolish. 
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance. 
Tarrow't, murnmred. 
Tarry-breeks, a sailor. 
Tauld, or laid, told. 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person. 
Tautcd, or tautie, matted together; spoken of hair or 

wool. 
Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be handled ; 

spoken of a horse, cow, &c. 
Teat, a small quantity. 
Teen, to provoke; provocation. 
2'edding. spreading after the mower. 
Ten-hour^s bite, a slight leeU for the horses while in the 

yoke, in the forenoon. 
Tent, a fieid-pulpit ; heed, caution; to lake heed; to 

tend or herd cattle. 
Tcntie. heedful, caution. 
Tentless, heedless. 
Teuglu tough. 

Tliack, thatch ; thack an'' rape, clothing, necessaries. 
Tliae, these. 

Thanms, small guts; fiddle-strings. 
Thankit, thanked. 
Theekit, thatciied. 
Thegither. together. 
Thmisel, themselves. 
Thick, intimate, familiar. 

Thievcless, cold, dry. spiled ; spoken of a person's de- 
meanor. 
Thir, these. 
IViirl. to thrill. 
Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 
Thole, to sutler, to endure. 
Thowe, a thaw; to thaw, 
ThowUss. slack, lazy. 
Thrang, throng; a crowd. 
Thrapple, throat, windpipe 
Thrace, twenty-lour sheaves or two shocks of corn; 

a considerable number. 
Thraic, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict 
2'hraivin, twisting, &.c. 
Thravm, sprained, twisted, contradicted. 
Threap, to mainlam by dint of assertion. 
Thteshin. thrashing. 
2'hreUen, thirteen. 
ThriHle, thistle. 

Through, to go on with ; to make out. 
Throuther, pell-mell, coniuseuly. 
Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise. 
Thumpit, thumped. 



Th usel. thyself. 

TiilH. to it. 

Timmer, timber. 

I'ine, to lose : tint, lost. 

lankier, a tinker. 

Tint the gate, lost the way. 

Tip, a ram. 

Tippence, twopence. 

Tirl. to make a slight noise ; to uncover. 

Tirlin, uncovering. 

Tither, the other. 

2't«/e, to whisper. 

Tittlin, whisp("ring. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

2od. a fox. 

Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child 

2^oddlin, tottering. 

Toom, empty, to empty. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun. a hamlet ; a farm-house. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet ; to blow a horn, 

&c. 
Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 
Towzie, rough, shaggy. 

Toy. a very old fashion of female head-dress. 
I'oyte.Xo totter like old age. 

Transmit grify'd, transmigrated, metamorphosed. 
Trashtrie, trash. 
Trtv-s. trowsers. 
Trickie, full of tricks. 
Trig, spruce, neat. 
Trimly, excellently. 
Trow, to believe. 
Trowth, truth, a petty oath. 
Tryste. an appointment: a fair. 

Trysted, appointed ; to tryste, to make an appointment. 
TryH. tried. 
Tug, raw hide, of which in old times plough-traces 

were frequently made. 
Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to figiit. 
Twa. two. 
Twa-three. a few. 
''Twad, it would. 
Twal, twelve : tical-pennie worth, a small quantity, a 

penny-worth. 
N. H. One penny English is 12tZ Scotch. 
Twin, to part. 
Tyke, a dog. 

UNCO, strange, uncouth ; very great, prodigious. 

Uncos, news. 

Unkenn'd, unknown. 

Unsirker, unsure, unsteady. 

Unskaith'd. undamaged, unhurt. 

Unwecting, unwittingly, unknowingly. 

Upo'', upon. 

Urchin, a hedge-hog. 

VAP'RIN, vaporing. 

Vera, very. 

Virl. a ring round a column, &c. 

Vittle, corn of all kinds, food. 

W. 

WA\ wall; wa\t, walls. 

Wabster. a weaver. 

Wad, would ; to bet; a bet, a pledge. 

Wadna. would not. 

Wue, wo ; sorrowl'ul. 

Waefii\ woful, sorrowful, wailing. 

Waes ticks .' or vjats-me! alas I O the pity. 

Waft, the cross thread that goes from the shuttle thrpugli 
the web ; woof 

Wdir, to lay out, to expend. 

Wale, choice ; to choose. 

Wal''d, chose, chosen. 

Walie, ample, large, jolly ; also aninlerjection of dis- 
tress. 

Wame. the belly. 

Wamefn^ a belly-full. 

Wanrhancie, unlucky. 

Wanrestfu\ restless. 

Wark. work. 

Wark-lume. a tool to work with. 

Warl. or warld. world. 

Warlock^ a wizard. 



150 



GLOSSARY. 



Warly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth. 

Warran^ a w^arranl; to warrant. 

Want, worst. 

WarsU'd, or warsVd. wrestled. 

Wastrie., prodigality. 

Wat, wet ; I wat, I wot, I know. 

Water-brose. brose made of meal and water simply, 
without the addition of milk, butler, &c. 

Wattle, a twig, a wand. 

Wauble, to swing, to reel. 

Waught, a draught. 

Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth. 

Waukri/e, not apt to sleep. 

Waur, worse ; to worst. 

Waiift, worsted. 

Wean, or iveunie. a child. 

Wearie, or weary ; many a weary body, many a dif- 
ferent person. 

Weason, weasand. 

Weaving the Stocking. See Stocking. 

Wee, little; wee things, little ones; wee bit, a small 
matter. 

Weel, well; weelfare, welfare. 

Weet, rain, wetness. 

Weird, fate. 

We''se, we shall. 

Wha, who. 

Whaizle, to wheeze. 

Whalpit, whelped. 

Whang, a leathern string; a piece of cheese, bread, 
&e., to give the strappado. 

Whare, where ; where'er, wherever. 

Wheep, to fly nimbly,to jerk; penni/-M>^eep, small beer. 

Whase, whose. 

WJiatreck, nevertheless. 

ff'hid, the motion of a hare, running but not frighted; 
a lie. 

W hidden, running as a hare or cony. 

Whigmeleeries, whims, fancies, crotchets. 

Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 

Whirligigums, useless ornaments, trifling appendages. 

Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle. 

Whisht, silence ; to hold one^s whisht, to be silent. 

Whisk, to sweep, to lash. 

Whisktt, lashed. 

Whitter. a hearty draught of liquor. 

Whiin-stane, a whin-stone. 

Whyles, whiles, sometimes. 

Wi\ with. 

Wicht, wight, powerful, strong; inventive; of a supe- 
rior genius. 

Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique direction ; a term 
in curling. 

Wicker, willow (the smaller sort.) 

Wiel, a small whirlpool. 

Wijie, a diminutive or endearing term for wife. 

Wilyart, bashful and reserved ; avoiding society or 
appearing awkward in it ; wild, strange, timid. 



Wimple, to meander. 

fVimpl't, meandered. 

Wimplin, waving, meandering. 

Win, to win, to winnow. 

Win't, winded as a bottom of varn. 

Win\ wind ; win's, wiiids. 

Winna, will not. 

iVinnock, a window. 

Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 

Wintle, a staggering motion; to stagger, to reel. 

Winze, an oath. 

Wiss, to wish. 

Withoutten, without. 

Wizened, hide-bound, dried, shrunk. 

Wonner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appellation. 

Worn, dwells. 

Woo\ wool. 

Woo, to court, to make love to. 

W odie, a rope, more properly one made of withes or 
willows. 

Wooer-bob, the garter knotted below the knee with a 
couple of loops. 

Wordy, worthy. 

Worset, worsted. 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or wonder. 

Wrack, to teaze, to vex. 

Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition exactly like 
a hving person, whose appearance is said to fore- 
bode the person's approaching death. 

Wrang, wrong ; to wrong. 

Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow. 

Wud-mad, distracted. 

Wumble, a wimble, 

Wyle. to beguile. 

Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 

Wyte, blame ; to blame. 

Y. 
YAD. an old mare ; a worn-out horse. 
Ye; this pronoun is frequently used/or thou. 
Year?is, longs much. 

Yearlings, born in the same year, coevals. 
Year is used both for singular and plural, years. 
Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray. 
Yell, barren, that gives no milk. 
Yerk. to lash, to jerk. 
Yerkit. jerked, lashed. 
Yestreen, yesternight. 
Yett, a gate, such as is usually at the entrance into a 

farm-yard or field. 
Yill, ale. 
Yird, earth. 
Yokin, yoking; a bout. 
Yont, beyond. 
Yoursel, yourself. 
Yowe, a ewe. 

Yowie, diminutive of yowe. 
Yule, Christmas. 



THE 

LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 

WITH 

HIS GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE; 

ALSO 

CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS, 

AND 

OBSERVATIONS ON THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY, 

BY 

DR. CURRIE. 



DR. CURRIE'S DEDICATION. 

TO 

CAPTAIN GRAHAM MOORE 

OF THE ROYAL NAVY. 



When you were stationed on our coast, 
about twelve years ago, you first recom- 
mended to my particular notice the poems 
of the Ayrshire ploughman, whose works, 
published for the benefit of his widow and 
children, I now present to you. In a dis- 
tant region of the world, whither the ser- 
vice of your country has carried you, you 
will, I know, receive with kindness this 
proof of my regard ; not, perhaps, without 
some surprise on finding that I have been 
engaged in editing these volumes, nor 
without some curiosity to know how I was 
qualified for such an undertaking. These 
points I will briefly explain. 

Having occasion to make an excursion 
to the county of Dumfries, in the summer 
of 1792, I had there an opportunity of see- 
ing and conversing with Burns. It has 
been my fortune to know some men of high 
reputation in literature, as well as in pub- 
lic life, but never to meet any one who, in 
the course of a single interview, communi- 
cated to me so strong an impression of the 
force and versatility of his talents. After 
this I read the poems, then published, with 
greater interest and attention, and with a 
full conviction that, extraordinary as they 
are, they afford but an inadequate proof of 
the powers of their unfortunate author. 

Four years afterwards. Burns terminated 
his career. Among those whom the charms 
of his genius had attached to him, was one 
with whom I have been bound in the ties 
of friendship from early life — Mr. John 
Syme, of Ryedale. This gentleman, after 
the death of Burns, promoted with the ut- 
most zeal a subscription for the support of 
the widow and children, to which their re- 
lief from immediate distress is ascribed ; 
and in conjunction with other friends of 
this virtuous and destitute family, he pro- 
jected the publication of these volumes for 
their benefit, by which the return of want 
might be prevented or prolonged. 



To this last undertaking an editor and 
biographer was wanting, and Mr. Syme's 
modesty opposed a barrier to his assuming 
an office, for which he was in other respects 
peculiarly qualified. On this subject he 
consulted me ! and with the hope of sur- 
mounting his objections, I offered him my 
assistance, but in vain. Endeavors were 
used to procure an editor in other quarters 
without effect. The task was beset with 
considerable difliculties, and men of estab- 
lished reputation naturally declined an un- 
dertaking, to the performance of which, it 
was scarcely to be hoped that general ap- 
probation could be obtained by any exer- 
tion of judgment or temper. 

To such an office, my place of residence, 
my accustomed studies, and my occupa- 
tions, were certainly little suited ; but the 
partiality of Mr. Syme thought me in other 
respects not unqualified ; and his solicita- 
tions, joined to those of our excellent friend 
and relation, Mrs. Dunlop, and of other 
friends of the family of the poet, I have 
not been able to resist. To remove difli- 
culties which would otherwise have been 
insurmountable, Mr. Syme and Mr. Gilbert 
Burns made a journey to Liverpool, where 
they explained and arranged the manu- 
scripts, and selected such as seemed wor- 
thy of the press. From this visit I derived 
a degree of pleasure which has compensa- 
ted much of my labor. I had the satisfac- 
tion of renewing my personal intercourse 
with a much valued friend, and of form.ing 
an acquaintance with a man, closely allied 
to Burns in talents as well as in blood, in 
whose future fortunes the friends of virtue 
will not, I trust, be uninterested. 

The publication of these volumes has 
been delayed by obstacles which these gen- 
tlemen could neither remove nor foresee, 
and which it would be tedious to enumer- 
ate. At length the task is finished. If the 
part which I have taken shall serve the in- 

153 



154 



DR. CURRIE'S DEDICATION, 



terest of the family, and receive the appro- 
bation of good men, I shall have my recom- 
pense. The errors into which I have fal- 
len are not, I hope, very important, and 
they will be easily accounted for by those 
who know the circumstances under which 
this undertaking has been performed. Gen- 
erous minds will receive the posthumous 
works of Burns with candor, and even par- 
tiality, as the remains of an unfortunate 
man of genius, published for the benefit of 
his family — as the stay of the widow and 
the hope of the fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, 
all topics are omitted in the writings, and 
avoided in the life of Burns, that have a 
tendency to awaken the animosity of party. 
In perusing the following volumes, no of- 
fence will be received, except by those to 
whom even the natural erect aspect of 
genius is offensive — characters that will 
scarcely be found among those who are ed- 
ucated to the profession of arms. Such 
men do not court situations of danger, or 
tread in the paths of glory. They will not 
be found in your service, which, in our own 
days, emulates on another element the su- 



perior fame of the Macedonian phalanx, or 
of the Roman legion, ar>d which has, late- 
ly, made the shores of Europe add Africa 
resound with the shouts of victory, from 
the Texel to the Tagus, and from the Ta- 
gus to the Nile ! 

The works of Burns w ill be received fa- 
vorably by one who stands in the foremost 
rank of this noble service, and who de- 
serves his station. On the land or on the 
sea, I know no man more capable of judging 
of the character or of the writings of this 
original genius. Homer, and Shakspeare, 
and Ossian, cannot always occupy your 
leisure. These volumes may sometimes 
engage your attention, while the steady 
breezes of the tropic swell your sails, and 
in another quarter of the earth charm you 
with the strains of nature, or awake in 
your memory the scenes of your early 
days. Suffer me to hope, that they may 
sometimes recall to your mind the friend 
who addresses you, and who bids you — 
most affectionately — adieu ! 

J. CURRIE. 

Liverpool, \st May, 1800. 



CONTENTS 



GENERAL COREESPONDENCE, ETC 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 

ON THK CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE SCOTTISH 
PEASANTRY. 

Effects of the legal establishment of parochial 
.schools, 159. — Of the church establishment, ib. — 
Of the absence of poor laws, 160. — Of Scottish mu- 
sic and national son»s, 161. — Of the laws respecting 
marriage and incontinence, 163. — Observations on 
the domestic and national attachments of the 
Scots, 163 

LIFE OF BURNS. 

Narrative of his infancy and youth, by himself, 165 — 
Narrative on the same subject, by his brother, and 
by Mr. Murdoch of London, his teacher, 169. — Other 
particulars of Burns while resident in Ayrshire, 
174. — History of Burns while resident in Edinburgh, 
including Letters to the Editor from Mr. Stewart 
and Dr. Adair, 180. — History of Burns while on the 
farm at Ellislaud, in Dumfries-shire, 194. — History 
of Burns while resident at Dumfries, 195. — His last 
Illness, Death and Cliaracter, with general Reflec- 
tions, 200 

Memoir respecting Burns, by a Lady, 205 

Criticism on the Writings of Burns, including obser- 
vations on poetry in the Scottish dialect, and some 
remarks on Scottish literature, 207 

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 

LETTERS. 

No. Page. 

1. To Mr. John Murdoch, Burns's former teach- 

er; giving an account of his present studies, 
and temper of mind, 223 

2. Extract from MSS. Observations on various 

subjects, 224 

3. To Mr. Aiken. Written under distress of 

mind, 225 

4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her notice, • • • . 226 

5. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair. Enclosing a poem 

on Miss A , 227 

6. Proclamation in the Name of the Muses, • • • • 227 

7. Dr. Blacklock to the Rev. G. Lowrie. Encour- 

aging the bard to visit Edinburgh and print 
a new edition of his poems there, 227 

8. From the Rev. Mr. Lowrie. Advice to the 

Bard how to conduct himself in Edinburgh, 228 

9. To Mr. Ciiaimers. Praise of Miss Burnet of 

Monboddo, 228 

10. To the Earl of Eglington. Thanks for his j.at- 

ronage. ! 

11. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his situation in 

Edinburgh. I 

12. To Dr. Moore. Grateful acknowledgments 

of Dr. M's notice of him in his letters to Mrs. 
Dunlop, 229 

13. From Dr. Moore. In answer to the foregoing 

and enclosing a sonnet on the Bard by Miss 
Williams, 230 

14. To the Rev. G. Lowrie. Thanks for advice 



No. Page. 
— reflections on his situation — compliments 
paid to Miss L , by Mr. Mackenzie 230 

15. To Dr. Moore 230 

16. From Dr. Moore. Sends the Bard a present 

of his " View of Society and Manners," &c. 231 

17. To the Earl of Glencairn. Grateful acknowl- 

edgments of kindness, 231 

18. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to a letter of 

advice, 231 

19. Extract concerning the monument erected for 

Fergusson by our Poet, 2-32 

20. To , Accompanying the foregoing, 232 

21. Extract from . Good advice, 233 

22. To Mrs. Dunlop. Respecting his prcspects on 

leaving Edinburgh, 233 

23. To the same. On the same subject, 234 

24. To Dr. Moore. On the same subject, 234 

25. Extract to Mrs. Dunlop. Reply to Criticisms. 234 

26. To the Rev. Dr. Blair. Written on leaving 

Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness, 234 

27. From Dr. Blair. In reply to the preceding • • 235 

28. From Dr. Moore. Criticism and good advice, 235 

29. To Mr. Walker, at Blair of Athole. Enclosing 

the Humble Petition of Bruar water to the 
Duke of Athole, 236 

30. To Mr. G. Burns. Account of his Tour through 

the Highlands, 236 

31. From Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre. Enclosing 

I..atin Inscriptions with translations, and the 
Tale of Omeron Cameron, 236 

32. Mr. Ramsay to the Rev. W. Young. Introdu- 

cing our Poet, 238 

33. Mr. Ramsay to Dr Blacklock. Anecdotes of 

Scottish Songs for our Poet, 233 

34. From Mr. John Murdoch in London. In an- 

swer to No. I. 239 

35. From Mr. , Gordon Castle. Acknowl- 

edging a song sent to Lady Charlotte Gor- 
don. 239 

36. From the Rev. J. Skinner. Some Account of 

Scottish Poems, 239 

37. From Mrs. Rose. Enclosing Gaelic Songs, 

with the music, 240 

38. To the Earl ofGlencairn. Requests his assist- 

ance in getting into the Excise. 241 

39. To . Dalrymple, Esq. Congratulation on 

his becoming a poet. Praise of Lord Glen- 
cairn, 241 

40. To Sir John Whitefoord. Thanks for friend- 

ship. Reflections on the poetical character 241 

41. To Mrs. Dunlop. Written on recovery from 

sickness, 242 

42. Extract to the same. Defence of himself,- • • • 242 

43. To the Same. — who had heard that he had ridi- 

culed her, 242 

44. To Mr. Clcghorn. Mentioning his having 

composed the first stanza of the Chevalier's 
Lament, 242 

45. From Mr. Clcghorn. In reply to the above. 

The Chevalier's liament in full, in a note. • • 243 

46. To Mrs. Dunlop. Giving an account of his 

prospects, 243 

47. From the Rev. J. Skinner. Enclosing two 

C155; 



156 



CONTENTS. 



No. Page. 
songs, one by himself, the other by a Buchan 
ploughman ; the songs printed at large, 243 

48. To Professor D. Stuart. Thanks for his friend- 

ship, 244 

49. Extract to Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks on Dry- 

den's Virgil, and Pope's Odyssey, 244 

50. To the same. General Reflections, 245 

51. To the Same, at Mr. Dunlop's, Haddington. 

Account of his marriage, 245 

52. To Mr. P. Hill. With a present of cheese,- • • 245 

53. To Mrs. Dunlop. With lines on a hermitage, 246 

54. To the Same. Farther account of his marriage 247 

55. To the Same. Reflections on human life, 247 

56. To R. Graham, Esq. of Fintry. A petition in 

verse for a situation in the Excise, 248 

57. To Mr. P. Hill. Criticism on a poem, entitled, 

• An Address to Loch-Lomond,' 248 

58. To Mrs. Dunlop, at Moreham Mains, 249 

59. To ****. Defence of the Family of the Stuarts. 

Baseness of insulting fallen greatness, 249 

60. To Mrs. Dunlop. With the Soldier's song— 

" Go fetch to me a pint of wine," 250 

61. To Miss Davies, a young Lady, who had 

heard he had been making a ballad on her, 
enclosing that ballad, 251 

62. From Mr. G. Burns. Reflections suggested 

by New Year's Day, 251 

63. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections suggested by 

New Year's Day, 251 

64. To Dr. Moore. Account of his situation and 

prospects, 252 

65. To Protessor D. Stewart. Enclosing poems 

for his criticism, 253 

66. To Bishop Geddes. Account of his situation 

and prospects, 253 

67. From the Rev. P. Carfrae. Requesting ad- 

vice as to the publishing Mr. Mylne's poems, 254 

68. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections atler a visit to 

Edinburgh, 254 

69. To the Rev. P. Carfrae. In answer to No. 67, 255 

70. To Dr. Moore. Enclosing a poem, 255 

71. To Mr. Hill. Apostrophe to Frugality, 255 

72. To Mrs. Dunlop. With a sketch of an epistle 

in verse to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox, 256 

73. To Mr. Cunningham. With the first draught 

of the poem on a wounded Hare, 256 

74. From Dr. Gregory. Criticism of the poem on 

a wounded Hare, 257 

75. To Mr. M'Auley of Dumbarton. Account of 

his situation, • • 257 

76. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on Religion,- • • 258 

77. From Dr. Moore. Good advice, 258 

78. From Miss. J. Little. A poetess in humble 

life, with a poem in praise of our Bard, - •- • 259 

79. From Mr. ******. Some account of Fergusson 259 

80. To Mr. ******. In answer, 260 

81. To Miss Williams. Enclosing a criticism on 

a poem of hers, 260 

82. From Miss W. In reply to the foregoing 261 

83. To Mrs. Dunlop. Praise of Zeluco, 261 

84. From Dr. Blacklock. An epistle in verse,- • • 261 

85. To Dr. Blacklock. Poetical reply to the above, 262 

86. To R. Graham, Esq. Enclosing some elec- 

tioneering ballads, 262 

87. To Mrs Dunlop. Serious and interesting re- 
reflections. 262 

88. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a book so- 

ciety among the farmers in Nithsdale, 263 

89. To Charles Sharpe, Esq. of Hoddam. Under 

a fictitious signature, enclosing a ballad,- • 264 

90. To Mr. G. Burns. With a prologue spoken 

on the Dumfries Theatre, 264 

91. To Mrs. Dunlop. Some account of Falconer, 

author of the Shipwreck, 264 

92. From Mr. Cunningham. Inquiries after our 

Bard, 265 

93. To Mr. Cunningham. In reply to the above, 266 

94. To Mr Hill. Orders for books, 266 

95. To Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks on the Lounger, 

and on the Writings of Mr. Mackenzie, 267 

96. From Mr. Cunningham. Account of the death 

of Miss Burnet of Monboddo, 268 

97. To Dr. Moore. Thanks for a present of Ze- 

luco, 268 

98. To Mrs. Dunlop. Written under wounded 

pride, 269 



No. Page. 
99. To Mr. Cunningham. A spirations after in- 
dependence, 269 

100. From Dr. Blacklock. Poetical letter of 

friendship, 269 

101. Extract from Mr. Cunningham. Suggesting 

subjects ibr our Poet's muse, 270 

102. To Mrs. Dunlop. Congratulations on the 

birth of her grandson. 270 

103. To Mr. Cunningham. With an elegy on Miss 

Burnet of Monboddo, 270 

104. To Mr. Hill. Indignant apostrophe to Pov- 

erty. 270 

105. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. Criticism on Tam 

o'Shanter, 271 

106. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. In reply to the above, 272 

107. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing his elegy on 

Miss Burnet, 272 

108. To Lady W. M. Constable. Acknowledging 

a present of a snuffbox, 272 

109. To Mrs. Graham of Fintry. Enclosing 

' Queen Mary's Lament,' 272 

110. From the Rev. G. Baird. Requesting assist- 

ance in publishing the poems of Michael 
Bruce, 273 

111. To the Rev. G. Baird. In reply to the above 273 

112. To Dr. Moore. Enclosing Tam o'Shanter, &c. 273 

113. From Dr. Moore. With Remarks on Tam 

o' Shanier, &c. - 274 

114. To the Rev. A. Alison. Acknowledging his 

present of ;he ' Essays on the Principles of 
Taste,' with remarks on the book, 275 

115. To Mr. Cunningham. With a Jacobite 

song, &c., 275 

116. To Mrs. Dunlop. Comparison between fe- 

male attractions in high and humble life,- • 276 

117. To Mr. . Reflections on his own indol- 

ence, 276 

118. To Mr. Cunningham. Requesting his interest 

for an oppressed friend, 276 

119. From the Earl of Buchan. Inviting over our 

bard to the Coronation of the Bust of Thom- 
son on Ednam Hill, 277 

120. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply, 277 

121. From the Earl of Buchan. Proposing a sub- 

ject for our poet's muse,' 277 

122. To Lady E. Cunningham. Enclosing ' The 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn,' - •• • 278 

123. To Mr. Ainslie. State of his mind after ine- 

briation, 278 

124. From Sir John White foord. Thanks for 'The 

Lament for James Earl of Glencairn,' 278 

125. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. Criticism on the 

Whistle and the La ment, 278 

126. To Miss Davies. Apology for neglecting her 

commands — moral reflections, • • 279 

127. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing ' The Song of 

Death,' 280 

128. To Mrs. Dunlop. Acknowledging the pres- 

ent of a cup, 280 

129. To Mr. William Smellie. Introducing Mrs. 

Riddel, 280 

130. To Mr. W. Nicol. Ironical thanks for advice 281 

131. To Mr. Cunningham. Commissions his arms 

to be cut on a seal — moral reflections, 281 

132. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his meeting 

with Miss L B and enclosing 

a song on her. 282 

133. To Mr. Cunningham. Wild apostrophe to a 

Spirit ! 283 

134. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his family, 284 

135. To Mrs. Dunlop. Letter of condolence un- 

der aflliction, 284 

1.36. To Mrs. Dimlop. With a poem, entitled ' The 

Righ"; of Woman.' 284 

137. To Miss B of York. Letter of friendship 285 

138. To r.Iiss C . Character and temperament 

of a poet 285 

1.39. To John M'Murdo, E.sq. Repaying money- 286 

140. To Mrs. R . Advising her what play to 

bespeak at the Dumfries Theatre, 288 

141. To a Lady, in favor of a Player's Benefit, • 286 

142. Extract to Mr. . On his prospects in the 

Excise. 287 

143. To Mrs. R , 287 

144. To the Same. Describing his melancholy 

feelings, 287 



CONTENTS 



157 



No. Page. 

1 45. To the. Same. Lending Werter, 2a7 

146. To ihe Same. On a return of interrupted 

friendship, 287 

147. To the Same. On a temporary estrangement 2S8 

148. To John Syme, Escj. ReHections on tlie 

liappiness of Mr. O , 283 

149. To Miss . Requesting the return of MSS. 

lent to a deceased friend, 288 

150. To Mr. Cunningham. Melanclioly reflections 

— cheering prospects of a happier world- • • 2^ 

151. To Mrs. R -. Supposed to be written from 

' Tlie dead to the living,' 289 

152. To Mrs. Dunlop. ReHections on the situation 

of his family if he shoidd die — praise olthe 

poem entitled ' The Task,' 290 

15.3. To the Same in London. 25)0 

154. To Mrs. R . Thanks for the Travels of 

Anacharsis. 291 

155. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of the Death of 

his Daughter, and of his own ill healtli, • • • 291 

156. To Mrs. R . Apology for not going to the 

birth-night assembly, '• 291 

'iST. To Mr. Cunningham. Account of hs illness 
and of his poverty — anticipation of his 
death, 292 

158. To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing affords little re- 

lief, 292 

159. To Mrs. Dunlop. Last farewell, 292 

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN MR. THOMSON AND 
MR. BURNS. 

1. Mr. Thomson to Mr. Burns. Desiring the 

bard to furnish verses for some of the Scot- 
tish airs, and to revise former songs. 294 

2. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Promising assistance, 2,94 

3. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sending some tunes, 294 

4. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With • The Lea-Rig,' and 

' Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,' 295 

5. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' My wile's a winsome 

wee thing,' and ' O saw ye bonnie Les- 
lie,' 296 

6. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Highland Mary,' 296 

7. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and critical observa- 

tions, 296 

8. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an additional stanza 

to 'Lea-Rig,' 297 

9. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Auld Rob Morris,' 

and ' Duncan Gray.' 297 

lO.Mr. B. toMr. T. With 'O Poortith Cauld,' 

&c. and • Galla Water,' 297 

11. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Desiring anecdotes on the 

origin of particular songs. Tytlerof Wood- 
houselee — Pleyel — sends P. Pindar's' Lord 
Gregory," — Postscrii)t from the Honorable 
A. Erskine, 298 

12. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has Mr. Tytler's anecdotes 

and means to give his own — Sends his own 

' Lord Gregory,' 298 

13. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Mary Morrison.' 299 

14. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Wandering Willie.' 299 

15. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Open the door to me, 

oh!' 299 

16. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'Jessy,' 299 

17. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With a list of songs and 

' Wandering Willie' altered, 299 

18. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' When wild war's deadly 

blast was blawn,' and ' Meg o' the Mill,' • • 300 

19. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Voice of Coila— Criticism- 

Origin of 'The Lasso' Patie's Mill.' 300 

20. Mr. T. to Mr. B. 301 

21. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Simplicity requisite in a 

song — One poet should not mangle the 
works of another. 301 

22. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Farewell thou stream that 

winding flows.' — Wishes that the national 
music may preserve its native features,- -- 302 

23. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and observations, - 302 

24. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With • Blithe hae I been on 

yon hill.' 302 

25. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'O Logan, sweetly 

didst thou glide,' ' O gin my love were yon 
red rose.' &;c. ' .303 

26. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Enclosing a note— Thanks. 303 

27. Mr B. to Mr. T. With ' There was a lass and 

she was fair,' 304 



No. Page 

28. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Hurt at the idea of pecuni- 

ary recompense — Remarks on songs, 304 

29. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Musical expression, 304 

30. Mr B. to Mr. T. For Mr. Clarke. 304 

31. Mj. B. to Mr. T. With ' Phillis the Fair.- • • • 305 

32. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Mr. Allan— drawing from 

'John Anderson my Jo,' 305 

33. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Had I a cave,' &c. 

— Some airs common to Scotland and Ire- 
land, 305 

34. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' By Allan stream I 

chanced to rove.' 306 

35. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Whistle and Pll come 

to you, my lad. and ' Awa wi' your belles 
and your beauties,' 306 

36. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Come, let me take 

thee to mv l)reast,' 306 

37. Mr. B. to Mf. T. ' Dainty Davie,* 306 

-38. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Delighted witli the produc- 
tions of Burns's Muse. j • • • 307 

39. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Bruce to his troops 

at Bannockburn,' 307 

40. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Behold the hour, the 

boat arrive,' 307 

41. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Observations on ' Bruce to 

his troops.' 307 

42. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Remarks on songs in Mr. 

T's list — His own method of forming a song 
' — • Thou hast left me ever, Jamie' — 'Where 
are the joys I hae met in the morning,' ' Auld 
lang syne,' 308 

43. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With a variation of ' Ban- 

nockburn,' 309 

44. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and observations, - 309 

45. Mr B. to Mr. T. On ' Bannockburn' — sends 

' Fair Jenny.' 310 

46. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Deluded swam, the 

pleasure' — Remarks, 310 

47. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Thine am I, my faith- 

ful fair,' — ' O condescend dear charming 
maid' — 'The nightingale' — 'Laura' — (the 
three la.st by G.Turnbull) 311 

48. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Apprehensions— Thanks. • 312 

49. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With • Husband, husband, 

cease your strife I' and ' Wilt thou be my 
dearie'?' 312 

50. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Melancholy comparison be- 

tween Burns and Carlini Mr. Allan has 

begun a sketch from the Cotter's Saturday 
Night, 312 

51. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Praise of Mr. Allan— 'Banks 

of Cree,' 312 

52. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Pleyel in France—' Here, 

where the Scottish muse immortal lives,' 
presented to Miss Graham of Fintry, with 
a copy of Mr. Thomson's Collection, 313 

53. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Does not expect to hear 

from Pleyel .soon, but desires to be prepar- 
ed with the poetrv. 313 

54. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' On the Seas and far 

away,' 313 

55. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Criticism, 313 

56. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Ca' the yowes to the 

knowes,' 313 

57. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' She says she lo'esma 

best of a'.' — • O let me in,' &c.— Stanza to 
Dr. Maxwell, 314 

58. Mr T. to Mr. B. Advising him to write a Mu- 

sical Drama. 314 

59. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Has been examining Scot- 

tish collections — Rit.«on — Difficult to obtain 
ancient melodies in their original state 315 

60. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Recipe for producing a love- 

song — ' Saw ye my Phely' — Remarks and 
anecdotes — • How long and dreary is the 
nijiht' — • liCt not woman e'er complain' — 
'The Trover's morning Salute to his Mistress, 
— • The Auld man' — • Keen blows the wind 
o'er Donochthead.' in a note, 315 

01. Mr. T. to Mr B. Wishes he knew the inspi- 
ring fair one — Ritson's Historical Essay 
not interesting — Allan — Maggie Lawder 317 

62. Mr B. to Mr. T. Has began his Anecdotes, 
&;c. ' My Chloris mark how green the 
groves,' — Tiove — ' It was the charming 
month of May* — ' Lassie wi' the lint-white 



158 



CONTENTS. 



No. Page. 

locks' — History of the air < Ye Banks and 
braes o' boniiie Doou' — James Miller — 
Clarke — The black keys — Instance of the 
difficulty oftracing the origin of ancient airs 317 

63. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With three copies of the 

Scottish airs, 318 

64. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' O Philly, happy be 

that day' — Starting note — ' Contented wi' 
little, and cantie wi' mair.' — ' Canst thou 
' leave me thus, my Katy ?'— (The Reply, 
' Stay my Willie, yet believe me,' in a note) 
— Stock and horn, 319 

65. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Praise — Desires more songs 

of the humorous cast — Means to have a 
picture from ' The Soldier's Return,' 320 

66. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' My Nannie's awa,' 320 

67. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With • For a' that an' a' that' 

and ' Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn'- • 320 

68. Mr. T. to Mr B. Thanks, 321 

69. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' O lassie, art thou sleeping 

y^ ?' and the Answer, 321 

70. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dispraise of Ecclefechan- • 321 

71. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, 321 

72. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Address to the Woodlark' 

— • On Chloris' being ill' — ' Their groves o' 
sweet myrtle,' &c., — ' 'Twas na her bonnie 
blue e'e,' &c., • 321 

73. Mr. T. to Mr. B. • With Allan's design from 

' The Cotter's Saturday Night,' 322 

74. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' How cruel are the 

parents,' and ' Mark yonder pomp of costly 
fashion,' 322 

75 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for Allan's designs, 322 

76 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Compliment, 322 

77 Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an improvement in 

'Whistle and I'll come to yoa, my lad,' — 'O 
this is no my ain lassie,' — ' Now spring has 
clad the grove in green' — ' O bonnie was 
yon rosy brier' — ' 'Tis Friendship's pledge 
my young, fair Friend,' 323 



No. Pagk. 

78. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Introducing Dr. Brian- 

ton, 323 

79. Mr. B. to Mr. T ' Forlorn my love, no com- 

fort near,' 323 

80. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Last May a braw wooer 

cam down the lang glen'—' Why, why tell 
thy lover' a fragment, 323 

81. Mr. T. to Mr. B., 324 

82. Mr. T. to Mr. B. After an awful pause, 324 

83. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for P. Pindar, &c.— 

' Hey for a lass wi' a tocher,' 324 

84. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Allan has designed some 

plates for an octavo edition. 324 

85. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Afflicted by sickness, but 

pleased with Mr. Allan's etchings, 324 

86. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy, encouragement, 325 

87. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Here's a health to 

ane I lo'e dear,' 325 

88. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Introducing Mr. licwars— 

Has taken a fancy to review his songs — 
Hopes to recover, 325 

89. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dreading the horrors of a 

jail, solicits the advance of five pounds, and 
encloses ' Fairest Maid on Devon banks,' • 325 

90. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy— advises a vol- 

ume of poetry to be published by subscrip- 
tion — Pope published the Iliad so, 325 

Letter containing some particulars of History of 

the foregoing Poems, by Gilbert Burns,- • • • 326 

Letter to Captain Grose, 329 



APPENDIX. 



No.l. 



331 



No. II. Including an extract of a Poem addressed 

to Burns by Mr. Telford. 333 

No. III. Letter from Mr. Gilbert Burns to the Ed- 
itor, approving of his Life of his Brother ; with 
observations on the effects of refinement of 
taste on the laboring classes of men, 7\36 



PREFATORY REMARKS 



TO THE 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 



Though the dialect in which many of the 
happiest effusions of Robert Burns are com- 
posed be peculiar to Scotland, yet his reputation 
has extended itself beyond the limits of that 
country, and his poetry has been admired as the 
offspring of original genius, by persons of taste 
in every part of the sister islands. The interest 
excited by his early death, and the distress of 
his infant family, have been felt in a remark- 
able manner wherever his writings have been 
known : and these posthumous volumes, which 
give the world his works complete, and which, 
it is hoped, may raise his widow and children 
from penury, are printed and published in Eng- 
land. It seems proper, therefore, to write the 
memoirs of his life, not with the view of their 
being read by Scotchmen only, but also by na- 
tives of England, and of other countries where 
the English language is spoken or understood. 

Robert Burns was, in reality, what he has 
been represented to be, a Scottish peasant. To 
render the incidents of his humble story gener- 
ally intelligible, it seems, therefore, advisable to 
prefix some observations on the character and 
situation of the order to which he belonged — a 
class of men distinguished by many peculiarities: 
by this means we shall form a more correct no- 
tion of the advantages with which he started, 
and of the obstacles which he surmounted. A 
few observations on the Scottish peasantry will 
not, perhaps, be found unworthy of attention in 
other respects ; and the subject is, in a great 
measure, new. Scotland has produced persons 
of high distinction in every branch of philosophy 
and literature ; and her history, while a separ- 
ate and independent nation, has been success- 
fully explored. But the present character of the 
people was not then formed ; the nation then 
presented features similar to those which the 
feudal system and the Catholic rehgion had dif- 
fused over Europe, modified, indeed, by the pe- 
culiar nature of her territory and climate. The 
Reformation, by which such important changes 
were produced on the national character, was 
speedily followed by the accession of the Scot- 
tish monarchs to the English throne : and the 
period which elapsed from that accession to the 
Union, has been rendered memorable, chiefly, 
by those bloody convulsions in which both di- 
visions of the island were involved, and which, 
in a considerable degree, concealed from the eye 
of the historian the domestic history of the peo- 
ple, and the gradual variations in their condi- 
tion and manners. Since the Union, Scotland, 



though the seat of two unsuccessful attempts to 
restore the house of Stuart to the throne, has 
enjoyed a comparative tranquillity; and it is since 
this period that the present character of her peas- 
antry has been in a great measure formed, though 
the political causes affecting it are to be traced 
to the previous acts of her separate legislature. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of 
Scotland will serve to convince an unprejudiced 
observer, that they possess a degree of intelli- 
gence not generally found among the same class 
of men in the other countries of Europe. In the 
very humblest condition of the Scottish peasants, 
every one can read, and most persons are more 
or less skilled in writing and arithmetic ; and, 
under the disguise of their uncouth appearance, 
and of their peculiar manners and dialect, astran- 
ger will discover that they possess a curiosity, 
and have obtained a degree of information, cor- 
responding to these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal pro- 
vision made by the parliament of Scotland in 
1646, for the establishment of a school in every 
parish throughout the kingdom, for the express 
purpose of educating the poor ; a law which 
may challenge comparison with any act of leg- 
islation to be found in the records of history, 
whether we consider the wisdom of the ends in 
view, the simplicity of the means employed, or 
the provisions made to render these means ef- 
fectual to their purpose. This excellent statute 
was repealed on the accession of Charles 11. in 
1660, together with all the other laws pas.sed 
during the commonwealth, as not being sanc- 
tioned by the royal assent. It slept during the 
reigns of Charles and James, but was re-enact- 
ed, precisely in the same terms, by the Scottish 
parliament after the revolution, 1696 ; and this 
is the last provision on the subject. Its effects 
on the national character may be considered to 
have commenced about the period of the Union ; 
and doubtless it co-operated with the peace and 
security arising from that happy event, in pro- 
ducing the extraordinary change in favor of in- 
dustry and good morals, which the character of 
the common people of Scotland has since under- 
gone.* 

The church-establishment of Scotland happi- 
ly coincides with the institution just mentioned, 
which may be called its school establishment. 
The clergyman himself being every where res- 
ident in his particular parish, becomes the pat- 
ron and superintendent of the parish school, and 
♦ See Appendix, No. I., Note A. 
159 



160 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



is enabled in various ways to promote the com- 
fort of the teacher, and the proficiency of the 
scholars. The teacher himself is often a candi- 
date for holy orders, who, during the long course 
of study and probation required in the Scottish 
church, renders the time which can be spared 
from his professional studies, useful to others as 
well as to himself, by assuming the respectable 
character of a schoolmaster. It is common for 
the established schools, even in the country par- 
ishes of Scotland, to enjoy the means of classi- 
cal instruction ; and many of the farmers, and 
some even of the cottagers, submit to much pri- 
vation, that they may obtain, for one of their sons 
at least, the precarious advantage of a learned ed- 
ucation. The difficulty to be surmounted arises, 
indeed, not from theexpenseof instructing their 
children, but from the charge of supporting them. 
In the country parish schools, the English lan- 
guage, writing, and accounts, are generally 
taught at the rate of six shillings, and Latin 
at the rate of ten or twelve shillings per an. 
num. In the towns the prices are somewhat 
higher. 

It would be improper in this place to inquire 
minutely into the degree of instruction received 
at these seminaries, or to attempt any precise 
estimate of its effects, either on the individuals 
who are the subjects of this instruction, or on 
the community to which they belong. That it 
is on the whole favorable to industry and mor- 
als, though doubtless with some individual ex- 
ceptions, seems to be proved by the most stri- 
king and decisive appearance ; and it is equally 
clear, that it is the cause of that spirit of emigra- 
tion and of adventure so prevalent among the 
Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord Verulam, 
been denominated power ; by others it has with 
less propriety been denominated virtue or happi- 
ness : we may with confidence consider it as mo- 
tion. A human being, in proportion as he is in- 
formed, has his wishes enlarged, as well as the 
means of gratifying those wishes. He may be 
considered as taking within the sphere of his vis- 
ion a large portion of the globe on which we 
tread, and discovering advantages at a greater dis- 
tance on its surface. His desires or ambition, 
once excited, are stimulated by his imagination ; 
and distant and uncertain objects, giving freer 
scope to the operation of this faculty, often ac- 
quire in the mind of the youthful adventurer, an 
attraction from their very distance and uncertain- 
ty. If, therefore, a greater degree of instruction 
be given to the peasantry of a country compara- 
tively poor, in the neighborhood of other coun- 
tries rich in natural and acquired advantages ; 
and if the barriers be removed that kept them 
separate, emigration from the former to the latter 
will take place to a certain extent, by laws near- 
ly as uniform as those by which heat diffuses it- 
self among surrounding bodies, or water finds 
its level when left to its natural course. By the 
articles of the Union, the barrier was broken 
down which divided the two British nations, and 
knowledge and poverty poured the adventurous 
natives of the north over the fertile plains of Eng- 
land : and more especially, over the colonies 
which she had settled in the east and west. The 
stream of population continues to flow from the 
north to the south; for the causes that originally 
impelled it continue to operate : and the richer 
country is constantly invigorated by the accession 
of an informed and hardy race of men, educated 



in poverty, and prepared for hardship and dan- 
ger ; patient of labor, and prodigal of life.* 

The preachers of the Reformation in Scotland 
were the disciples of Calvin, and brought with 
them the temper as well as the tenets of that 
celebrated heresiarch. The presbyterian form 
of worship and of church government was en- 
deared to the people, from its being established 
by themselves. It was endeared to them, also, 
by the struggle it had to maintain with the Cath- 
olic and the Protestant episcopal churches ; over 
both of which, after a hundred years of fierce 
and sometimes bloody contention, it finally tri- 
umphed, receiving the countenance of govern- 
ment, and the sanction of law. During this long 
period of contention and suffering, the temper 
of the people became more and more obstinate 
and bigoted: and the nation received that deep 
tinge of fanaticism which colored their public 
transactions, as well as their private virtues, and 
of which evident traces may be found in our own 
times. When the public schools were estab- 
lished, the instruction communicated in them 
partook of the religious character of the people. 
The Catechism of the Westminster Divines was 
the universal school-book, and was put into the 
hands of the young peasant as soon as he had 
acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; and his 
first exercise in the art of reading introduced 
him to the most mysterious doctrines of the 
Christian faith. This practice is continued in our 
own times. After the Assembly's Catechism, 
the Proverbs of Solomon, and the New and 
Old Testament, follow in regular succession; and 
the scholar departs, gifted with a knowledge of 
the sacred writings, and receiving their doctrines 
according to the interpretation of the Westmin- 
ster Confession of Faith. Thus, with the in- 
struction of infancy in the schools of Scotland 
are blended the dogmas of the national church ; 
and hence the first and most constant exercise 
of ingenuity among the peasantry of Scotland 
is displayed in religious disputation. With a 
strong attachment to the national creed, is con- 
joined a bigoted preference of certain forms of 
worship ; the source of which would be often al- 
together obscure, if we do not recollect that the 
ceremonies of the Scottish church were framed 
in direct opposition, in every point, to those of 
the church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singulari- 
ties of opinion and manners, which characterized 
the English sectaries in the last century, afforded 
a subject for the comic muse of Butler, whose 
pictures lose their interest, since their archetypes 
are lost. Some of the peculiarities common 
among the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in 
Scotland, in the present times, have given scope 
to the ridicule of Burns, whose humor is equal 
to Butler's, and whose drawings from living 
manners are singularly expressive and exact. 
Unfortunately, the correctness of his taste did not 
always correspond with the strength of his geni- 
us ; and hence some of the most exquisite of his 
comic productions are rendered unfit for the 
light.t 

The information and the religious education 
of the peasantry of Scotland, promote sedateness 
of conduct, and habits of thought and reflection. 

♦ See Appendix, No. I., Note. B. 

fHoIy Willie's Prayer; Rob the Rhymer's Wel- 
come to his Bastard Child ; Epistle to J. Gowdie ; the 
Holy Tulzie, &c. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



161 



These good qualities are not counteracted by 
the establishment of poor laws, which while they 
reflect credit on the benevolence, detract IVoni 
the wisdom of the English legislature. Tomake 
a legal provision for the inevitable distresses of 
the poor, who by age or disease are rendered 
incapable of labor, may indeed seem an mdis- 
pensable duty of society ; and if, in the execu- 
tion of a plan for this purpose, a distinction could 
be introduced, so as to exclude from its benefits 
those whose sufferings are produced by idleness 
or profligacy, such an institution would perhaps 
be as rational as humane. But to lay a general 
tax on property for the support of poverty, from 
whatever cause proceeding, is a measure full of 
danger. It must operate in a considerable de- 
gree as an incitement to idleness, and a discour- 
agement to industry. It takes away from vice 
and indolence the prospect of their most dreaded 
consequences, and from virtue and industry their 
peculiar sanctions. In many cases it must ren- 
der the rise in the price of labor, not a blessing, 
but a curse to the laborer ; who, if there be an 
excess in what he earns beyond his immediate 
necessities, may be expected to devote this ex- 
cess to his present gratification ; trusting to the 
provision made by law for his own and his fami- 
ly's support, should disease suspend or death ter- 
minate his labors. Happily, in Scotland, the 
same legislature which established a system of 
instruction for the poor, resisted the introduction 
of a legal provision for the support of poverty ; 
the establishment of the first, and the rejection of 
the last, were equally favorable to industry and 
good morals ; and hence it will not appear sur- 
prising, if the Scottish peasantry have a more 
than usual share of prudence and reflection, if 
they approach nearer than persons of their order 
usually do, to the definition of a man, that of 
** a being that looks before and after.'' These 
observations must indeed be taken with many 
exceptions: the favoral)le operation of the causes 
just mentioned is counteracted by others of an op- 
posite tendency ; and the subject, if fully ex- 
amined, would lead to discussions of great ex- 
tent. 

When the Reformation was established in 
Scotland, instrumental music was banished from 
the churches, as savoring too much of " pro- 
fane minstrelsy." Instead of being regulated 
by an instrument, the voices of the congregation 
are led and directed by a person under the name 
of a precentor ; and the people are all expected 
to join in the tune which he chooses for the 
psalm which is to be sung. Church-music is 
therefore a part of the education of the peasant- 
ry of Scotland, in which they are usually in- 
structed in the long winter nights by the par- 
ish schoolmaster, who is generally the precen- 
tor, or by itinerant teachers more celebrated 
for their powers of voice. This branch of edu- 
cation had, in the last reign, fallen into some neg- 
lect, but was revived about thirty or forty years 
ago, when the music itself was rnformed and 
improved. The Scottish system of psalmody is, 
however, radically bad. Destitute of taste or 
harmony, it forms a striking contrast with the 
delicacy and pathos of the profane airs. Our 
poet, it will be found, was taught church-music, 
in which, however, he made little proficiency. 

That dancing should also be very generally a 
part of the education of the Scottish peasantry, 
will surprise those who have only seen this de- 
11 



scription of men ; and still more those who re- 
flect on the rigid spirit of Calvinism with which 
the nation is so deeply afi'ected, and to which 
this recreation is so strongly abhorrent. The 
winter is also the season when they acquire dan- 
cing, and indeed almost all their other instruction. 
They are taught to dance by persons generally 
of their own number, many of whom work at 
daily labor during the summer months. The 
school is usually a barn, and the arena for the 
porformers is generally a clay floor. The dome 
is lighted with candles stuck in one end of a 
cloven stick,* the other end of which is thrust 
into the wall. Reels, strathspeys, country-dan- 
ces, and horn-pipes, are here practiced. The 
jig, so much in favor among the English peas- 
antry, has no place among them. The attach- 
ment of the people of Scotland of every rank, 
and particularly of the peasantry, to this amuse- 
ment, is very great. After the labors of the day 
are over, young men and women walk many 
miles, in the cold and dreary nights of winter, 
to these country dancing-schools ; and the in- 
stant that the violin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue 
seems to vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes 
erect, his features brighten with sympathy ; ev- 
ery nerve seems to thrill with sensation, and 
every artery to vibrate with life These rustic 
performers are indeed less to be admired for grace 
than for agility and animation, and their accu- 
rate observance of time. Their modes of dan- 
cing, as well as their tunes, are common to ev- 
ery rank in Scotland, and are now generally 
known. In our o\\ n day they have penetrated 
into England, and have established themselves 
even in the circle of royalty. In another gene- 
ration they will be naturalized in every part of 
the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather passion 
for dancing, among a people so deeply tinctured 
with the spirit and doctrines of Calvin, is one 
of those contradictions which the philosophic 
observer so often finds in national character and 
manners. It is probably to be ascribed to the 
Scottish music, which throughout ail its varie- 
ties, is so full of sensibility ; and which, in its 
livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotions that 
find in d:xncing their natural solace and relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland ovei 
the spirit of the established religion, has not, 
however, been obtained without long continued 
and obstinate struggles. The numerous secta- 
ries who dissent trom the establishment on ac- 
count of the relaxation which they perceive, or 
think they perceive, in the church, from her orig- 
inal doctrines and discipline, universally con- 
demn the practice of dancing, and the schools 
where it is taught ; and the more elderly and 
serious part of the people, of every persuasion, 
tolerate rather than approve these meetings of 
the young of both sexes, where dancing is prac- 
ticed to their spirit-stirring music, where care 
is dispelled, toil is forgotten, and prudence itself 
is sometimes lulled to sleep. 

The R'formaiion, which proved fatal to the 
rise of other fine arts in Scotland, probably im- 
peded, but could not obstruct the progress of its 
music : a circumstance that will convince the 
impartial inquirer, that this music not only ex- 
isted previously to that aera, but had taken a 
firm bold of the nation ; thus affording a proof 
of its antiquity, stronger than any produced by 
the researches of our antiquaries. 



162 



PREFATORY REMARKS 



The impression which the Scottish music has 
made on the people, is deepened by its union 
with the national songs, of which various col- 
lections of unequal merit are before the public. 
These songs, like those of other nations, are 
many of them humorous; but they chiefly treat 
of love, war, and drinking. Love is the subject 
of the greater proportion. Without displaying 
the higher powers of the imagination, they ex- 
hibit a perfect knowledge of the human heart, 
and breathe a spirit of affection, and sometimes 
of delicate and romantic tenderness, not to be 
surpassed in modern poetry, and which the 
more polished strains of antiquity have seldom 
possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in the 
rustic muse of Scotland, or of the greater num- 
ber of these love- songs themselves, it would be 
difficult to trace ; they have accumulated in the 
silent lapse of time, and it is now perhaps im- 
possible to give an arrangement of them in the 
order of their date, valuable as such a record of 
taste and manners would be. Their present in- 
fluence on the character of the nation is, how- 
ever, great and striking. To them we must at- 
tribute, in a great measure, the romantic pas- 
sion which so often characterizes the attachments 
of the humblest of the people of Scotland, to a 
degree, that if we mistake not, is seldom found 
in the same rank of society in other countries. 
The pictures of love and happiness exhibited in 
their rural songs are early impressed on the 
mind of the peasant, and are rendered more at- 
tractive from the music with which they are 
united. They associate themselves with his 
own youthful emotions ; they elevate the object 
as well as the nature of his attachment ; and give 
to the impressions of sense the beautiful colors 
of imagination. Hence in the course of his pas- 
sion, a Scottish peasant often exhibits a spirit of 
adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier need not 
be ashamed. After the labors of the day are 
over, he sets out for the habitation of his mis- 
tress, perhaps at many miles distance, regard- 
less of the length or the dreariness of the way. 
He approaches her in secresy, under the dis- 
guise of night. A signal at the door or window, 
perhaps agreed on, and understood by none but 
her, gives information of his arrival ; and soine- 
times it is repeated again and again, before the 
capricious fair one will obey the summons. But 
if she favors his addresses, she escapes unob- 
served, and receives the vows of her lover un- 
der the gloom of twilight, or the deeper shade 
of night. Interviews of this kind are the sub- 
jects of many of the Scottish songs, some of the 
most beautiful of which Burns has imitated or 
improved. In the art which they celebrate he was 
perfectly skilled ; he knew and had practiced all 
its mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is indeed 
universal even in the humblest condition of man 
in every region of the earth. But it is not un- 
natural to suppose that it may exist in a greater 
degree, and in a more romantic form, among 
the peasantry of a country who are supposed to 
be more than commonly instructed ; who find 
in their rural songs expressions for their youth- 
ful emotions: and in whom the embers of pas- 
sion are continually fanned by the breathings of 
a music full of tenderness and sensibility. The 
direct influence of physical causes on the at- 
tachment between the sexes is comparatively 
small, but it is modified by moral causes beyond 



any other affection of the mind. Of these music 
and poetry are the chief. Among the snows of 
Lapland, and under the burning sun of Angola, 
the savage is seen hastening to his mistress, and 
every where he beguiles the weariness of his 
journey with poetry and song.* 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue of a 
community, there is perhaps no single criterion 
on which so much dependence may be placed, 
as the state of the intercourse between the sexes. 
Where this displays ardor of attachment, ac- 
companied by purity of conduct, the character 
and the influence of woman rise in society, our 
imperfect nature mounts in the scale of moral 
excellence ; and, from the source of this single 
affection, a stream of felicity descends, which 
branches into a thousand rivulets that enrich and 
adorn the field of life. Where the attachment 
between the sexes sinks into an appetite, the 
heritage of our species is comparatively poor, 
and man approaches the condition of the brutes 
that perish. " If we could with safety indulge 
the pleasmg supposition that Fingal lived and 
that Ossian sung,"t Scotland, judging from 
this criterion, might be considered as ranking 
high in happiness and virtue in very remote 
ages. To appreciate her situation by the same 
criterion in our own times, would be a delicate 
and a difl[icult undertaking. After considering 
the probable influence of her popular songs and 
her national music, and examining how far the 
effects to be expected from those are supported 
by facts, the inquirer would also have to exam- 
ine the influence of other causes, and particu- 
larly of her civil and ecclesiastical institutions, 
by which the character, and even the manners 
of a people, though silently and slowly, are of- 
ten powerfully controlled. In the point of view 
in which we are considering the subject, the 
ecclesiastical establishments of Scotland may 
be supposed peculiarly favorable to purity of 
conduct. The dissoluteness of manners among 
the Catholic clergy, which preceded, and m some 
measure produced the Reformation, led to an 
extraordinary strictness on the part of the re- 
formers, and especially in that particular in 
which the licentiousness of the clergy had been 
carried to its greatest height — the mtercourse 
between the sexes. On this point, as on all 
others connected with austerity of manners, 
the disciples of Calvin assumed a greater sever- 
ity than those of the Protestant episcopal church. 
The punishment of illicit connection between 
the sexes, was, throughout all Europe, a pro- 
vince which the clergy assumed to themselves ; 
and the church of Scotland, which at the Re- 
formation renounced. so many powers and priv- 
ileges, at that period took this crime under her 
more especial jurisdiction. t Where pregnancy 
takes place without marriage, the condition ot 
the female causes the disgovery, and it is on 
her, therefore, in the first instance, that the cler- 
gy and elders of the church exercise their zeal. 
After examination, before the kirk-session, 
touching the circumstances of her guilt, she must 
endure a public penance, and sustain a public re- 
buke from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths succes- 

*The North American Indians, among whom the 
attachment between the sexes is said to be weak, 
and love, in the purer sense of the word, unknown, 
seem nearly unacquainted with the charms of poetry 
and nnisic. See WeUVs Tour. 

t Gibbon. + See Appendix, No. I., Note C 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



163 



sively. in the face of the congregation to which 
she lielongs, and thus have her weakness expos- 
ed, and her shame blazoned. The sentence is 
the same with respect to the male; hut liovv 
much lighter the punishment ! It is well known 
that this dreadful law. worthy of the iron minds 
of Calvin and of Kno.x, has ol'teti led to conse- 
quences, at the very mention of which human 
nature recoiis. 

While the punishment of incontmence pre- 
scribed by the institutions of Scotland is severe, 
the culprits have an obvious method of avoid- 
ing it afforded them by the law respecting mar- 
riage, the validity of which recjuires neither the 
ceremonies of the church, nor any other cere- 
monies, but simply the dehberate acknowledg- 
ment of each other as husband and wife, made 
by the parties before witnesses, or in any other 
way that gives legal evidence of such an ac- 
knowledgment having taken place. And as the 
parties themselves fix the date of their marriage, 
an opportunity is thus given to avoid the punish- 
ment, and repair the consequences of illicit grat- 
ification. iSuch a degree of laxity respecting so 
serious a contract might produce much confu- 
sion in the descent of property, without a still 
farther indulgence ; but the law of Scotland 
legitimating all children born before wedlock, 
on the subsequent marriage of their parent.s, 
renders the actual date of the marriage itself of 
little consequence.* Marriages contracted in 
Scotland without the ceremonies of the church, 
are considered as irregular, and the parties us- 
ually submit to a rehake for their conduct, in 
the face of their respective congregations, whicli 
is not however necessary to render the mar- 
riage valid. Burns, whose marriage, it will ap- 
pear, was irregular, does not seem to have un- 
dergone this part of the di.scipline of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are 
in many particulars favorable to a conduct among 
the peasantry lounded on foresight and retlec- 
tion, on the subject of marriage the reverse of 
this is true. Irregular marriages, it may be nat- 
urally supposed, are often improvident ones, in 
whatever rank of society they occur. The 
children of such marriages, poorly endowed by 
their parents, find a certain degree of instruction 
of easy acqui.-ition ; but the comforts of life, and 
the gratifications of ambition, they find of more 
difficult attainment in their native soil ; and thus 
the marriage laws of Scotland conspire with 
other circumstances, to produce that habit of 
emigration, and spirit of adventure, for which 
the people are so remarkable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scottish 
peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger the de- 
gree of their cultivation. In their own country, 
their industry is inferior to that of the same de- 
scription of men in the southern division of the 
island. Industry and the useful arts reached 
Scotland later than England; and though their ad- 
vancehas been rapidthere, the effects producedare 
as yet far inferior, both in reality and appearance. 
The Scottish farmers have in general neither 
the opulence nor the comforts of those of Eng- 
land, neither vest the same capital in the soil, 
nor receive from it the same return. Their cloth- 
ing, their food, and their habitations, are almost 
every where inferior. t Their appearance in 

♦ See Appendix, No. I., Note D. 
•t These remarks are confined to the class of far- 
mers, the same corresponding inferiority will not be 



these respects corresponds with the appearance 
of their country ; and under the operation of pa- 
tient industry, both are improving. Industry 
and the useful arts came later into Scotland than 
into England, because the security of property 
came later. With causes of internal agitation 
and warfare, similar to those which occurred to 
the more southern nation, the people of Scotland 
were exposed to more imminent hazards, and 
more extensive and destructive spoliation, from 
external war. Occujjied in the maintainance of 
their independence against their more powerfiil 
neighbors, to this were necessarily sacrificed the 
arts of peace, and at certain periods, the flower 
of their population. And when the union of the 
crowns produced a security from national wars 
with England, for the century succeeding, the 
civil wars common to both divisions of the 
island, and the dependence of the Scottish coun- 
cils on those of the more powerful kingdom, 
counteracted this disadvantage. Even the un- 
ion of the British nation was not, from obvious 
causes, immediately tbllowed by all the benefits 
which it was ultimately destined to produce. 
At length, however, these benefits are distinct- 
ly felt, and generally acknowledged. Property 
is secure ; manufactures and commerce increas- 
ing ; and agriculture is rapidly improving in 
Scotland. As yet, indeed, the farmers are not, 
in general, enabled to make improvements out 
of their own capitals, as in England; but the 
landholders who have seen and felt the advanta- 
ges resulting from them, contribute towards 
ihem with a liberal hand. Hence properly, as 
well as population, is accumulating rapidly on 
the Scoitish soil; and the nation, enjoying a great 
part of the blessings of Englishmen, and re- 
taining several of their own happy institutions, 
might be considered, if confidence could be 
placed in human foresight, to be as yet only in 
an early stage of their progress. Yet there are 
obstructions in their way. To the cultivation of 
the soil are opposed the extent and the strictness 
of the entails ; to the improvement of the people 
the rapidly increasing use of spirituous liquors,* 
a detestable practice, which includes in its con- 
sequences almost every evil, physical and mor- 
al. The peculiarly social disposition of the Scot- 
tish peasantry exposes them to this practice. 
This disposition, which is fostered by their na- 
tional songs and music, is perhaps characteristic 
of the nation at large. Though the source of 
many pleasures, it counteracts by its consequen- 
ces the efi'ects of their patience, industry, and 
frugality, both at home and abroad, of which 
those especially who have witnessed the progress 
of Scotchmen in other countries, must have 
known many striking instances. 

Since the Union, the manners and language 
of the people of Scotland have no longer a stan- 
dard among themselves, but are tried by the 
standard of the nation to which they are united. 
Though their habits are hv from being flexible, 
yet it is evident that their manners and dialect 

found in the condition of the cottagers and laborers, 
at least in the article of food, as those who rxaniinc 
this subject impartially will soon d scover. 

* The amount of duty on spirits distilled in Scotland 
is now upwards of •2.j(),000/. annually. In 1777, it did 
not reach SiOOZ. 'i'he rate of duties has indeed been 
raised, but making every allowance- the increase of 
consumption must be enormous. This is independ 

1 ent of the duly on malt, &;c., mall liquor, impoiied 

; spirits, and wine. 



164 



PREFATORY REMARKS 



are undergoing a rapid change. Even the far- 
mers of the present day appear to have less of 
the pecuUarilies of their country in their speech, 
than the men of letters in the last generation. 
Burns, who never left the island, nor penetrated 
farther into England than Carlisle on the one 
hand, or Newcastle on the other, had less of the 
Scottish dialect than Hume, who lived many 
years in the best society of England and France: 
or perhaps than Robertson, who wrote the Eng- 
lish language in a style of such purity ; and if 
he had been in other respects fitted to take a lead 
in the British House of Commons, his pronun- 
ciation would neither have fettered his elo- 
quence, nor deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking particular in the character of the 
Scottish peasantry, is one which it is hoped 
will not be lost — the strength of their domestic 
attachments. The privation to which many pa- 
rents submit for the good of their children, and 
particularly to obtain for them instruction, which 
they consider as the chief good, has already been 
noticed. If their children live and prosper, they 
have their certain reward, not merely as witness- 
ing, but as sharing of their prosperity. Even in 
the humblest ranks of the peasantry, the earn- 
ings of the children may generally be considered 
as at the disposal of their parents ; perhaps in no 
country is so large a portion of the wages of 
labor applied to the support and comfort of those 
whose days of labor are past. A similar strength 
of attachment extends through all the domestic 
relations. 

Our poet partook largely of this amiable char- 
acteristic of his humble compeers ; he was also 
strongly tinctured uith another striking feature 
which belongs to them, a partiality for his native 
country, of which many proofs may be found in 
his writings. 'I'his, it must be confessed, is a 
very strotig and general sentiment among the 
natives of Scotland, differing, however, in its 
character, according to the character of the dif- 
ferent minds in which it is found ; in some ap- 
pearing a selfish prejudice, in others a generous 
affection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth is, in- 
deed, common to all men. It is found among 
the inhabitants of every region of the earth, 
from the arctic to the antarctic circle, in all the 
vast variety of climate, of surface, and of civili- 
zation. To analyze this general sentiment, to 
trace it throiieh the mazes of association up to 
the primary affection in which it has its source, 
would neither be a difficult nor an unpleasing 
labor. On the first consideration of the subject, 
we should perhaps expect to find this attachment 
strong in proportion to the physical advantages 
of the soil ; but inquiry, far from confirming 
this supposition, seems rather to lead to an op- 
posite conclusion. In those fertile regions where 
beneficent nature yields almost spontaneously 
whatever is necessary to human wants, patriot- 
ism, as well as every other generous sentiment, 
seems weak and languid. In countries less rich- 
ly endowed, where the coinforts. and even ne- 
cessaries of life must be purchased by patient toil, 
the affections of the mind, as well as the facul- 
ties of the understanding. improve underexertion, 
and patriotism flourishes amidst its kindred vir- 
tues. Where it is necessary to combine for mu- 
tual defence, as well as for the supply of com- 
mon wants, mutual good-will springs from inu- 
tual difficulties and labors, the social aifections 



unfold themselves, ana extend trom the men 
with whom we live, to the soil on which we 
tread. It will perhaps be lound indeed, that our 
affections cannot be orignally called forth, but 
by objects capable, or supposed capable, of feel- 
ing our sentiments, and of returning them : but 
when once excited they are strengthened by ex- 
ercise, they are expanded by the powers of im- 
agination, and seize more especially on those in- 
animate parts of creation, which form the thea- 
tre on which we have first felt the alternations 
of joy. and sorrow, and first ta3:ed the sweets of 
symphuthy and regard. If this reasoning be 
just, the love of our country, although modified, 
and even extinguished in individuals by the 
chances and changes of life, may be presumed, 
in our general reasonings, to be strong among a 
people in proportion to their social, and more 
especially to their domestic effections. In free 
governments it is found more active than in 
despotic ones, because as the individual becomes 
of more consequence in the community, the com- 
munity becomes of more consequence to him. 
In small states it is generally more active than 
in large ones, for the same reason, and also be- 
cause the independence of a small community 
being maintained with difficulty, and frequently 
endangered, sentiments of patriotism are moie 
frequently excited. It may also be remarked, 
that mountainous countries are often peculiarly 
calculated to nourish sentiments of national pride 
and independence, from the influence of history 
on the affections of the mind. In such countries, 
from their natural strength, inferior nations have 
maintained their independence against their more 
powerful neighbors, and valor, in all ages, has 
made its most successful efforts against oppres- 
sion. Such countries present the fields of battle, 
where the tide of invasion was rolled back, and 
where the ashes of those rest, who have died 
in defence of their nation. 

The operation of the various causes we have 
mentioned is doubtless more general and more 
permanent, where the scenery of a country, the 
peculiar manners of its inhabitants, and the 
martial achievements of their ancestors are em- 
bodied in national songs, and united to national 
music. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain to us 
why, among the natives of Scotland, even of 
cultivated minds, we so generally find a partial 
attachment to the land of their birth, and why 
this is so strongly discoverable in the writings 
of Burns, who joined to the higher powers of 
the understanding the most ardent afiections. 
Let not men of reflection think it a superfluous 
labor to trace the rise and progress of a character 
like his. Born in the condition of a peasant, he 
rose by the force of his mind into distinction 
and influence, and in his works has exhibited 
what are so rarely found, the charms of original 
genius. With a deep insight into the human 
heart, his poetry exhibits high powers of im- 
agination — it displays, and as it were embalms, 
the peculiar mariners of his country ; and it 
may be considered as a monument, not to hisown 
name only, but to the expiring genius of an an- 
cient and once independent nation. In relating 
the incidents of his life, candor will prevent us 
from dwelling invidiously on those failings which 
justice forbids us to conceal; we will tread 
lightly over his yet warm ashes, and respect the 
laurels that shelter his untimely grave. 



THE LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 

BY DR. CURRIE. 



Robert Burns was, as is well known, the 
son of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards 
himself a farmer there; but, havinj? been un- 
successful, he was about to emigrate to Jamaica. 
He had previously, however, attracted some 
notice by his poetical talents in the vicinity 
where he lived; and having published a small 
volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this drew 
upon him more general attention. In conse- 
quence of the encouragement he received, he 
repaired to Edinburgh, and there published by 
subscription, an improved and enlarged edition 
of his poems, which met with extraordmary 
success. By the profits arising from the sale 
of this edition, he was enabled to enter on a 
farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having married 
a person to whom he had been long attached, 
he retired to devote the remainder of his life to 
agriculture. He was again, however, unsuccess- 
ful ; and, abandoning his farm, he removed into 
the town of Dumfries, where he filled an in- 
ferior office in the excise, and where he termin- 
ated his life, in July, 1796, in his thirty-eighth 
year. 

The strength and originality of his genius 
procured him the notice of many persons dis- 
tinguished in the republic of letters, and, among 
others, that of Dr. Moore, well known for his 
Views of Society and Man7i€rs on the Co7iti- 
nent of Europe, Zeluco, and various others works. 
To this gentleman our poet addressed a letter, 
after his first visit to Edinburgh, giving a his- 
tory of his life, up to the period of his writing. 
In a composition never intended to see the light, 
elegance, or perfect correctness of composition 
will not be expected. These, however, will 
be compensated by the opportunity of seeing 
our poet, as he gives the incidents of his life, 
unfold the peculiarities of his character with all 
the careless vigour and open sincerity of his 
mind. 

Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. 

"Sir, ^ 

" For some months past I have been ram- 
bling over the country ; but I am now confined 
with some lingering complaints, originating, as 
I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits 
a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have 
taken a whim to give you a history of myself. 
My name has made some little noise in this 
country ; you have done me the honor lo interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think 
a faithfiil account of what character of a man 
I am, and how I came by that character, may 
perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I will 



give you an honest narrative ; though I know it 
will be often at my own expense ; for I assure 
you. Sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character, 
excepting in the trifling affair of wisdom, I some- 
times think I resemble — I have, 1 say. like him, 
turned my eyes to behold madness arid folly, and, 
like him, too, frequently shaken hands with their 
intoxicating friendship. * * •* After you 
have perused these pages, should you think them 
trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell 
you, that the poor author wrote them under 
some twitching qualms of conscience, arising 
from suspicion that he was doing what he ought 
not to do ; a predicament he has more than once 
been in before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to 
assume that character which the pye-coated 
guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. 
When at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquaint- 
ed in the Herald's Office ; and, looking through 
that granary of honors, I there found almost 
every name in the kingdom ; but for me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood." 

" My father was of the north of Scotland, the 
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis- 
fortunes on the world at large; where, after many 
years' wanderings and sojournings. he picked 
up a pretty large quantity of observation and ex- 
perience, to which I am indebted for most of my 
little pretensions to wisdom. I have met with 
few who understood meii, their manners, and 
their ways, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungain- 
ly integrity, and headlong, ungovernable irasci- 
bility, are disqualifying circumstances ; conse- 
quently I was born a very poor man's son. For 
the first six or seven years of my life, my father 
was gardener to a very worthy gentleman of 
small estate in the neighborhood of Ayr. Had 
he continued in that station, I must have march- 
ed off to be one of the little underlings about a 
farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and 
prayer to keep his children under his own eye 
till they could discern between good and evil ; 
so with the assistance of his generous master, 
my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. 
At those years I was by no means a favorite 
with any body. I was a good deal noted for a 
retentive memory, a stubborn, sturdy something 
in rny disposition, and an enthusiastic ideot* pi- 
ety. I say ideot piety, because I was then but 
a child. 'I'hough it cost the schoolmaster some 
thrashings, I made an excellent English schol- 
Idiot/or idiotic, -g. 



166 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



ar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years 
of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and 
particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I 
owed much to an old woman who resided in the 
family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity 
and superstition. She had, I suppose, the lar- 
gest collection in the country of tales and songs, 
concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, 
witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-can- 
dles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, 
giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other 
trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of 
poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imag- 
ination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal ram- 
bles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in sus- 
picious places : and though nobody can be more 
sceptical than 1 am in such matters, yet it often 
takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these 
idle terrors. The earliest composition that I 
recollect taking pleasure in, was Tke Vision of 
Mizra, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning. 
How are thy serva?tts blest, Lord ! I particu- 
larly remember one half-stanza, which was mu- 
sic to my boyish ear — 

" For tliougli on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave—.'' 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English 
Collection, one of my school-books. The two 
first books that ever I read in private, and which 
gave me more pleasure than any two books I 
ever read since, were The Life of Hannibal, and 
The History of Sir IVilliam Wallace. Hanni- 
bal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used 
to strut in raptures up and down after the re- 
cruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself 
tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of 
Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my 
veins, which will boil along there till the flood- 
gates of life shut in eternal rest. 

*' Polemical divinity about this time was put- 
ting the country half- mad; and I, ambitious of 
shining in conversation parties on Sundays, be- 
tween sermons, at funerals, &c., used, a few 
years afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so 
much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue 
and cry of heresy against me, which has not ceas- 
ed to this hour. 

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage 
to me. My social disposition, when not check- 
ed by some modifications of spirited pride, was, 
like our catechism-definition of infinitude, with- 
out bounds or limits. I formed connections with 
other younkers who possessed superior advan- 
tages, the youngling actors, who were busy in 
the rehearsal of pans in which they were short- 
ly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas I 1 
was destined to drudge behind the scenes. It 
is not commonly at this green age that our 
young gentry have a just sense of the immense 
distance between them and their ragged play- 
fellows. It takes a few dashes into the world, 
to give the young great man that proper, decent, 
unnoticing disregard for the poor, insignificant, 
stupiddevils.the mechanics and peasanfryaround 
him, who were perhaps born in the same vil- 
lage. My young superiors never insulted the 
clouterly appearance of my ploughboy carcass, 
the two extremes of which were often exposed 
to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. They 
would give me stray volumes of books ; among 
them, even then, I could pick up some observa- 
tions ; and one, whose heart I am sure not even 
the Manny Begum scenes have tainted, helped 



me to a little French. Parting with these niy 
young friends and benefactors, as they occasion- 
ally went off for the East or West Indies, was 
often to me a sore affliction ; but I was soon 
called to more serious evils. My father's gen- 
erous master died ; the farm proved a ruinous 
bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, we fell 
into the hands of a factor, who sat for the pic- 
ture I have drawn of one in my Tale of Twa 
Dogs. My father was advanced in life when 
he married ; I was the eldest of seven children; 
and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit 
for labor. My lather's spirit was soon irritated, 
but not easily broken. There was a freedom 
in his lease in two years more ; and, to weath- 
er these two years, we retrenched our expenses. 
We lived very poorly : I was a dexterous plough- 
man, for my age ; and the next eldest to me was 
a brother (Gilbert), who could drive the plough 
very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A 
novel-wriier might perhaps have viewed these 
scenes with some satisfaction ; but so did not 
I ; my indignation yet boils at the recollection 
of the s 1 factor's insolent threatening let- 
ters, which used to set us all in tears. 

" This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a 
hermit, with the unceasing toil of a galley-slave, 
brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before 
which period I first committed the sin of Rhyme, 
You know our country custom of coupling a 
man and woman together as partners in the la- 
bors of the harvest. In my fifteenth autumn 
my partner was a bewitching creature, a year 
younger than myself My scarcity of English 
denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language ; but you know the Scottish idiom — 
she was a honnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, 
she altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated 
me in that delicious passion, which in spite of 
acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of 
human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! 
How she caught the contagion 1 cannot tell : 
you medical people talk much of infection from 
breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I 
never expressly said I loved her. Indeed 1 did 
not know myself why I liked so much to 
loiter behind with her, when returning in tho 
evening from our labors ; why the tone of her 
voice made my heart-strings thrill like an JEo' 
lian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat 
such a furious ratan when I looked and fingered 
over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle 
stings and thistles. Among her other love-in- 
spiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was 
her favorite reel, to which I attempted giving an 
embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so pre- 
sumptuous as to imagine that I could make ver- 
ses like printed ones, composed by men who 
had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, 
which was said to be composed by a small coun- 
try laird's son, on one of his father's maids, 
with whom he was in love ! and I saw no reas 
on why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, 
excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast 
peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had 
no more scholar-craft than myself* 

" Thus with me began love and poetry . 
which at times have been my only, and, till with 
in the last twelve months, have been my highest 
enjoyment. My father struggled on till he 
reached the freedom in his lease, when he en- 
* See Appendix. No. II., Note A. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



167 



tcred on a larger farm, about ten miles farther 
in the country. The nature of the bargain he 
made was such as to throw a little ready money 
into his hands at the commencement of his lease, 
otherwise the afl'air would have been impracti- 
cable. For four years we lived comfortably 
here ; but a difference commencing between him 
and his landlord as to terms, after three years' 
tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, 
niy father was just saved from the horrors of a 
jail by a consumption, which, after two years' 
promises, kindly stepped in and carried him 
away, to v^here the wicked cease from troubling, 
and the weary are at rest. 

" It is during the time that we lived on this 
farm, that my little story is most eventful. I 
was, at the beginningof this period, perhaps the 
most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no 
solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of 
the world. What I knew of ancient story was 
gathered from Salmo7i's and Guthrie's geo- 
graphical grammars ; and the ideas I had formed 
of modern manners, of literature, and criticism, 
I got from the Spectator. These, with Fope''s 
Works, some plays of Shakspeore, Tull and 
Dickson oil Agriculture, The Pantheon, Locke's 
Essay on the Huinaii Understanding, Stack- 
house's History of the Bible, Justice's British 
Gardeiier's Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan 
Ramsay's JVorks, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine 
of Original Sin, A Select Collect io?i of English 
Songs, and Hervey's Meditations , had formed 
the whole of my reading. The collection of 
Songs was my vade mecum. I pored over them 
driving my cart, or walking to labor, song by 
song, and verse by verse : carefully noting the 
true, render, or sublime, from affectation and fus- 
tian. I am convinced I owe to this practice 
much of my critic craft, such as it is. 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my man- 
ners a brush, I went to a country dancing school. 
My father had an unaccountable antipathy against 
these meetings ; and my going was, what to 
this moment 1 repent, in opposition to his wishes. 
My father, as I said before, was subject to 
strong passions ; from that instance of disobedi- 
ence in me he took a sort of dislike to me, which 
I believe was one cause of the dissipation which 
marked my succeedmg years. I say dissipa- 
tion, comparatively with the strictness and so- 
briety, and regularity of presbyterian country 
life ; for though the Will o' Wisp meteors of 
thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights 
of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue 
kept me for several years afterwards within the 
line of innocence. The great misfortune of my 
life was to want an aim. I had felt early some 
stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind 
gropings of Homer's Cyclop round the walls of 
his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed 
on me perpetual labor. The only two openings 
by which I could enter the temple of Fortune, 
was the gate of niggardly economy, or the path 
of little chicaning bargain-making. The first 
is so contracted an aperture, I never could 
squeeze myself into it; — the last I always hat- 
ed — there was contamination in the very en- 
trance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, 
with a strong appetite for sociability, as well 
from native hilarity as from a pride of observa- 
tion and remark ; a constitutional melancholy 
or hypochondriasm that made me fly from sol- 
itude ; add to these incentives to social life, my 



reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain 
wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, 
something like the rudiments of good sense ; 
and it will not seem surprising that I was gen- 
erally a welcome guest where I visited, or any 
great wonder that, always where two or three 
met together, there was I ainong them. But 
far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was 
un penchant a V adorable moitie du genre humain. 
My heart was completely tinder, and eternally 
lighted up by some goddess or other ; and as in 
every other warfare in this world, my fortune 
was various, sometimes I was received with 
favor, and sometimes I was mortified with a 
repulse. At the plough, scythe or reaping hook, 
1 feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute 
want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther 
for my labors than while I was in actual exercise, 
I spent the evenings in the way after my own 
heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love- 
adventure without an assisting confidant. I pos- 
sessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, 
that recommended me as a proper second on 
these occasions; and I dare say, I felt as much 
pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves 
of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did states- 
man in knowing the intrigues of half the courts 
of Europe. The very goose feather in my hand 
seems to know instinctively the well-worn path 
of my imagination, the favorite theme of my 
song : and is with difficulty restrained from giv- 
ing you a couple of paragraphs on the love-ad- 
ventures of my compeers, the humble inmates 
of the farm-house, and cottage; but the grave 
sons of science, ambition, or avarice, baptize 
these things by the name of Follies. To the 
sons and daughters of labor and poverty they 
are matters of the most serious nature ; *othem, 
the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender 
farewell, are the greatest and most delicious 
parts of their enjoyments. 

"Another circumstance in my life, which 
made some alterations in my mind and manners, 
was that I spent my nineteenth summer on a 
smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at 
a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, 
dialling, &.C., in which I made a pretty good 
progress. But I made a greater progress in the 
knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade 
was at that time very successful, and it some- 
times happened to me to fall in with those who 
carried it on. Scenes of swaggering, riot and 
roaring dissipation were till this time new to 
me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, 
though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix 
without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went 
on with a high hand with my geometry, till the 
sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a 
carnival in my bosom, when a charming filettt 
who lived next door to the school, overset my 
trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from 
the sphere of my studies. I, however, strug- 
gled on with my sines and cosines for a few 
days more ; but stepping into the garden one 
charming noon to take the sun's altitude, there 
I met my angel, 

" Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower. " 

" It was in vain to think of doing any more 

food at school. The remaining week I staid, 
did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the 
two last nights of my stay in the country, had 



168 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest 
and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

*' I returned home very considerably improv- 
ed. My reading was enlarged with the very 
important addition of Thomson's and Shenstone's 
Works; I had seen human nature in a new 
phasis ; and I engaged several of my school-fel- 
lows to keep up a literary correspondence with 
me. This improved me in composition. I had 
met with a collection of letters by the wits of 
Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them 
most devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own 
letters that pleased me ; and a comparison be- 
tween them and the composition of most of my 
correspondents, flattered my vanity. I carried 
this whim so far, that though I had not three 
farthings' worth of business in the world, yet 
almost every post brought me as many letters 
as if I had been a broad plodding son of day- 
book and ledger. 

" My life flowed on much in the same course 
till my twenty-third year. Vive V amour, et 
vive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of 
action. The addition of two more authors to 
my library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and 
M' Kenzie — Tristram Shandy and The Man of 
Feeling — were my bosom favorites. Poesy was 
still a darling walk for my mmd ; but it was 
only indulged in according to the humor of the 
hour. I had usually half a dozen or more pieces 
on hand ; I took up one or other, as it suited 
the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed 
the work as it bordered on faiigue. My pas- 
sions, when once lighted up, raged like so many 
devils, till they got vent in rhyme, and then 
the conning over my verses, like a spell, sooth- 
ed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of those 
days are in print, except Winter, a Dirge, the 
eldest of my printed pieces ; The Death of Poor 
Mailie, John Birleycorn, and songs first, second, 
and third. Song second was the ebullition of 
that passion which ended the forementioned 
school-business. 

"My twenty-third year was to me an im- 
portant era. Partly through whim, and partly 
that I wished to set about doing something in 
life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighboring 
town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an 
unlucky affair. My * * * ; and to finish the 
whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal 
to the new year, the shop took fire, and burnt 
to ashes ; and 1 was left like a true poet, not 
worth a sixpence. 

*' I was obliged to give up this scheme ; the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round 
my father's head ; and what was worst of all, he 
was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and to 
crown my distresses, a belle file whom I ador- 
ed, and who had pledged her soul to meet me 
in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar 
circumstances of mortification. The finishing 
evil that brought up the rear of this iqfernal file, 
was my constitutional melancholy, being in- 
creased to such a degree, that for three months 
I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied 
by the hopeless wretches who have got their 
mittimus — Depart from me, ye accursed.' 

"From this adventure I learned something 
of a town life; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I form- 
ed with a young fellow, a very noble character, 
but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the 
son of a simple mechanic ; but a greater man 



in the neighborhood taking him under his pa- 
tronage, gave him a genteel education, with a 
view of bettering his situation in life. The 
patron dying just as he was ready to launch out 
into the world, the poor fellow in despair went 
to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill 
fortune, a little before 1 was acquainted with him, 
he had been set on shore by an American pri- 
vateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, strip- 
ped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor fel- 
low''s story without adding, that he is at thia 
time master of a large West-Indiaman belong- 
ing to the Thames. 

" His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved 
and admired hini to a degree of enthusiasm, and 
of course strove to imitate him. In some meas- 
ure I succeeded ; I had pride before, but he 
taught it to flow in proper channels. His know- 
ledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, 
and I was all attention to learn. He was the 
only man I ever saw that was a greater fool than 
myself, where woman was the presiding star ; 
but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a 
sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with hor- 
ror. Here his friendship did me mischief; and 
the consequence was that soon after I resumed 
the plough, I wrote the PoeCs Welcome.* My 
reading only increased, while in this town, by 
two stray volumes of Pamda, and one of Fer- 
dinand Count Fathom, which gave me some idea 
of novels. Rhyme, except eome religious pie- 
ces that are in print, I had given up ; but meet- 
ing with Ferguson s Scottish Poems, I strung 
anew my wildly sounding lyre with emulating 
vigor. When my father died, his all went 
among the hell-hounds that prowl around the 
kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to collect 
a little money in the family amongst us, with 
which, to keep us together, rny brother and I 
took a neighboring farm. My brother wanted 
my hair-brained imagination, as well as my so- 
cial and amorous madness ; but, in good sense, 
and every sober qualification, he was far my su- 
perior. 

"I entered on this farm with a full resolu- 
tion. Come, go to, I will be wise I I read farming 
books, I calculated crops: I attended markets; 
and, in short, in sphe o( the devil, and the world, 
and the flesh, I believe I should have been a 
wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunate- 
ly buying bad seed, the second, from a late har- 
vest, we lost half of our crops. This overset all 
my wisdom, and I returned, like the dog to his 
vomit, and the sow that was washed to her walloW' 
ing in the mire.f 

I now began to be known in the neighborhood 
as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic 
offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque 
lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend 
Calvinists, both of them dramatis personce mmy 
Holy Fair. I had a notion myself, that the piece 
had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I 
gave a copy of it to a friend who was very fond 
of such things, and told him that I could not 
guess who was the authorof it, but that I thought 
it pretty clever. With a certain description of 
the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar 
of applause. Holy Willie's Prayer next made 
its appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so 
much, that they held several meetings to look 

* Kob the Rliymer's Welcome to his Bastard Child, 
t See Appendix, No. II., Note B. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



169 



over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it 
might be pointed against profane rhymers. Un- 
luckily for me, my wanderings led me on anoth- 
er side, within pouit-blank shot of their heaviest 
metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave 
rise to my printed poem, The Lament. I'his 
was a most melancholy affair, which I cannot 
yet bare to reflect on, and had very nearly given 
me oneor two of the principal qualifications for a 
place among those who hav« lost the chart, and 
mistaken the reckoning of Rationality.* I gave 
up my part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it 
was only nominally mine ; and made what lit- 
tle preparation was in my power for Jamaica. 
But before leaving my native country forever, I 
resolved to publish my poems. I weighed my 
productions as impartially as w'as in my power ; 
I thought they had merit ; and it was a deli- 
cious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, 
even though it should never reach my ears — a 
poor negro driver; — or perhaps a victim to that in- 
hospitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits! 
I can truly say, that pauvre i7iconnu as I then 
was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of my- 
self and of my works as I have at this moment, 
when the public has decided in their favor. It 
•ever was my opinion that the mistakes and blun- 
ders, both in a rational and religious point of 
view, of which we .see thousands daily guilty, 
are owing to their ignorance of themselves. To 
know myself had been all along my constant 
study. 1 weighed myself alone ; I balanced my- 
self with others; I watched every means of in- 
formation, to see how much ground I occupied 
as a man and as a poet; I studied assiduously 
Nature's design in my formation — where the 
lights and shades in my character were intended. 
I was pretty confident my poems would meet 
with some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar 
of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of cen- 
sure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes 
make me forget neglect. I threw off six hun- 
dred copies, of which I had got subscriptions for 
about three hundred and fifty. — My vanity was 
highly gratified by the reception I met with from 
the public ; and besides I pocketed, all expens- 
es deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum 
came very seasonably, as I was thinking of in- 
denting myself, for want of money to procure my 
passage. As soon as I was master of nine guin- 
eas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, 
I took a steerage passage in the first ship that 
was to sail from the Clyde ; for, 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 

'• I had been for some days skulking from co- 
vert to covert, under all the terrors ol a jail ; as 
some ill-advised people had uncoupled the mer- 
ciless pack of the law at my heels. 1 had taken 
the farewell of my few friends ; my chest was 
on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the 
last song I should ever measure in Caledonia. 
The gloomy night is gather i 7ig faxt, when a let- 
ter from Dr. Blacklock, to a friend of mine, 
overthrew all my schemes, by opening new pros- 
pects to my poetic aml)ition. The Doctor be- 
longed to a set of critics, for whose applause 1 
had not dared to hope. His opinion that I would 
meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for a 
second edition, fired me so much, that away I 
posted for that city, without a single acquaint- 
ance, or a singl« letter of introduction. The 

♦ An explanation of th s will be found hereafter. 



baneful star which had so long shed its blasting 
influence in my zeniih, for once made a revolu- 
tion to the nadir; and a kind Providence placed 
me under the patronage of one of the noblest of 
men, the Earl of Glencairn. Ouhlie moi, Grand 
Dieu, si jamais je Vouhlie ! 

" I need relate no firther. At Edinburgh I 
was in a new world ; I mingled among many 
classes of men. but all of them new to me, and 
I was all attention to catch the characters and 
the manjiers living as they rise. Whether I have 
profited, time will show. 



"My most respectful compliments to Mis* 
W. Her very elegant and friendly letter I can- 
not answer at present, as my presence is requi- 
site in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow."* 



At the period of our poet's death, his brother, 
Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that he had him- 
self written the foregoing narrative of his life 
while in Ayrshire ; and having been applied to 
by Mrs. Dunlop for some memoirs of his broth- 
er, he complied with her request in a letter, 
from which the following narrative is chiefly ex- 
tracted. When Gilbert Burns afterwards saw 
the letter of our poet to Dr. Moore, he made 
some annotations upon it, which shall be noticed 
as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 25th day of 
January, 1759, in a small house about two miles 
from the townof Ayr, and within a few hundred 
yards of Alloway church, which his poem of 
Tarn o Shunter has rendered immortal. t The 
name which the poet and his broilier moderniz- 
ed into Burns, was originally Burnes, or Burn- 
ess. Their father, William Burnes, was the 
son of a farmer in Kincardinshire, and had re- 
ceived the education common in Scotland to per- 
sons in his condition of life ; he could read and 
write, and had some knowledge of arithmetic. 
His family having fallen into reduced circum- 
stances, he was compelled to leave his home in 
his nineteenth year, and turned his steps towards 
the south in quest of a livelihood. The same 
necessity attended his elder brother Robert. 
" I have often heard my father." says Gilbert 
Burns, in his letter to Mrs. Dunlop, "describe 
the anguish of mind he felt when they parted on 
the top of a hill on the confines of their native 
place, each going off his several way in search 
of new adventures, and scarcely knowing whith- 
er he went. My father undertook to act as a 
gardener, and shaped his course to Edinburgh, 
where he wrought hard when he could get work, 
passing through a variety of difliculties. Still, 
however, he endeavored to spare something for 
the support of his aged parents: and I recollect 
hearing him mention his having sent a bank- 
note for this purpose, when money of that kind 

* Tliere are various copies of this letter in the au- 
thor's hand-writing ; and one of these evidently cor- 
rected is in llie book in which he ha I coped several 
of his letters. This has been used for the press, with 
some omissions, and one slight alteration suggested 
by G Iberi Burns. 

t This house is on the right-hand side of the road 
from Ayr to Miiybole. which forms a p;irt of the road 
from (Jlasgow to Port I'atrick. When the poet's fa- 
ther afterwards removed toTaibo'ton p.trish, he sold 
liis leasehold right in this house, and a lew acres of 
l.md a.ljoiaing. to the corporation uf shoemakers in 
Ayr. li is now a country ale-house. 



170 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



was so scarce in Ivincardinshire, that they 
scarcely knew how to employ it when it arriv- 
ed.'" From Edinburgh, William Burnes pass- 
ed westward into the county ot Ayr, where he 
engaged himself as a gardener to the laird of 
Fairly, with whom he lived two years ; then 
changing his service for that of Crawford of 
Doonside. At length, being desirous of settling 
in life, he took a perpetual lease of seven acres 
of land from Dr. Campbell, physician in Ayr, 
with the view of commencing nurseryman and 
public gardener ; and having built a house upon 
it with his own hands, married, in December, 
1707, Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, 
who still survives. The first fruit of this mar- 
riage was Robert, the subject of these memoirs, 
born on the 25th of January, 1759, as has already 
been mentioned. Beibre William Burnes had 
made much progress in preparing his nursery, 
he was withdrawn irom that undertaking by Mr. 
Ferguson, who purchased the estate of Doon- 
holm, in the immediate neighborhood, and en- 
gaged him as his gardener and overseer ; and 
this was his situation when our poet was born. 
Though in the service of Mr. Ferguson, he lived 
in his own house, his wife managing her family 
and her Utile dairy, which consisted sometimes 
of two, sometimes of tliree milch cows: and 
this state of unambitious content continued till 
the year 1766. His son Robert was sent by him, 
in his sixth year, to a school at Alloway Miln, 
about a mile distant, taught by a person of the 
name of Campbell ; but this teacher being in a 
few months appointed master of the work-house 
at Ayr, William Burnes, in conjunction with 
some other heads of families, engaged John Mur- 
doch in his stead. 'I'he education of our poet, 
and of his brother Gilbert, was in common ; and 
of their proficiency under Mr. Murduch we have 
the following account : " With him we learnt 
to read English tolerably well,* and to write a 
little. He taught us, too, the English grammar. 
I was too young to profit much from his lessons 
in grammar ; but Robert made some proficien- 
cy in it — a circumstance of considerable weight 
m the unfolding of his genius and character ; as 
he soon became remarkable for the fluency and 
correctness of his expression., and read the few 
books that came in his way with much pleasure 
and improvement ; for even then he was a read- 
er when he could get a book, Murdoch, whose 
library at that time had no great variety in it, 
lent him Tlie Life of Hannibal, which was the 
first book he read (the school-book excepted,) 
and almost the only one he had an opportunity of 
reading while he was at school : for Tke Life of 
Wallace, which he classes with it in one ot his 
letters to you, he did not see for some y»ars af- 
terwards, when he borrowed it from the black- 
smith who shod our horses." 

It appears that William Burnes approved him- 
self greatly in the service of Mr. Ferguson, by 
his intelligence, industry, and integrity. In 
consequence of this, with a view of promoting 
his interest, Mr. Ferguson leased him a farm, 
of which we have the following account : 

" The farm was upwards of seventy acres, t 
(between eighty and ninety, English statute 
measure,) the rent of which was to be forty 
pounds annually for the first six years, and after- 

* Letter from Gilbert Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. 
t Letter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs. DluiIo|). The 
name of this farm is Mouui Oliphant, in Ayr parish. 



wards forty-five pounds. My father endeavor- 
ed to sell his leasehold property, for the purpose 
of stocking this farm, but at that time was un- 
able, and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred 
pounds for that purpose. He removed to his 
new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766. It was, 
I think, not above two years afier this, that 
Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part of 
the country ; and there being no school near 
us, and our little services being useful on the 
farm, my father undertook to teach us arithmetic 
in the winter evenings by candle-light ; and in 
this way my two eldest sisters got all the edu- 
cation they received. I remember a circum- 
stance that happened at this time, which though 
trifling in itself, is fresh in my memory, and 
may serve to illustrate the early character of 
my brother. Murdoch came to spend a night 
with us, and to take his leave, when he was about 
to go into Carrick. He brought us, as a present 
and memorial of him, a small compendium of 
English grammar, and the tragedy of Titus 
Andronicus, and by way of passing the evening, 
he began to read the play aloud. We were all 
attention for some time, till presently the whole 
party was dissolved in tears. A female in the 
play (I have but a confused remembrance of it) 
had her hands chopt off", and her tongue cut out, 
and then was insultingly desired to call for water 
to wash her hands. At this, in an agony of 
distress, we with one voice desired he would 
read no more. My father observed, that if we 
would not hear it out, it would be needless to 
leave the play with us. Robert replied, that if 
it was left he would burn it. My father was 
going to chide him for this ungrateful return to 
his tutor's kindness ; but Murdoch interfered, 
declaring that he liked to see so much sensibil- 
ity ; and he left The School for Love, a comedy, 
(translated I think from the French,) in its 
place.''* 

" Nothing." conjinues Gilbert Burns, " could 
be more retired than our general manner of liv- 
ing at Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any body 
but the members of our own family. There 
were no boys of our own age, or near it, in the 
neighborhood. Indeed the greatest part of the 
land in the vicinity was at that time possessed 
by shopkeepers, and people of that stamp, who 
had retired from business, or who k( pt their 
farm in the country, at the same time that they 
followed business in town. My father was for 
some time almost the only companion we had. 
He conversed familiarly on all subjects with us, 
as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, 

*It is to be remembered that the poet was only 
nine years of age, and the relator of th s incident under 
eight, at the t;nie it liappened. I he effect was very 
natural in children of sensihility at their age. At a 
more mature period of the judgment, snch ahsurd 
representations ;ire calculated rather to produce dis- 
gust or laughter, than tears. The scene to which 
Gilbert Burns alludes, opens thus : 

Titus Andronicus, Act IL Scene 5. 

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, tcith Lavinia ravi'shedy 

her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. 

Why is this silly play still printed as Shakspeare's, 
against the opinion of all ilie best criics ? 'I he bard 
of Avon wfis guilty of many extravagiinces, but he 
iilways performed what he intended to perform. That 
he ever excited in a Hritish mind (or ihe French 
critics must be set aside) disgust or ridicule, where 
he meant to have awakened pity or horror, is what 
will not Le imputed to ihat master of the iassions 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



171 



while we accompanied him in the labors of the 
farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects 
as might tend to increase our knowledge, or 
•confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed 
Sulmoiis Geographical Grammar lor us, and 
eudeavoied to make us acquainted with the 
situation and history of the difierent countries 
in the world ; while from a book-society in Ayr, 
he procured for us the reading of Derhavis 
Fhysico and Astro- Theology, and Eaij's iVis- 
dom of God in the Creation., to give us some 
idea of astronomy and natural hisiory. Robert 
read all these books with an avidity and indus- 
try, scarcely to be equalled. My lather had 
been a subscriber to Stackhouae's Hiatan/ of 
the Bible, then laiely published by James Meu- 
ross, in Kilmarnock : from this Robert collected 
a competent knowledge of history ; for no book 
was so voluminous as to slacken his industry, 
or so antiquaied as to damp his researches. A 
brother ol my mother, who had lived with us 
some lime, and had learnt some arithmetic by 
winter evening's candle, went into a booksellers 
shop in Ayr, to purchase The Ready Reckoner, 
or Tradesman's Sure Guide, and a book to teach 
him to write letters. Luckily, in place of The 
Complete Letter- Writer, he got by mistake a 
small collection of letters by the most eminent 
writers, with a few sensible directions for attain- 
ing an easy epistolary style. 'I'his book was to 
Robert of the greatest consequence. It inspired 
him with a strong desire to excel in letter-writ- 
ing, while it furnished him with models by 
some of the first writers in our language. 

" My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, 
when my father, regretting that we wrote so 
ill, sent us, week about, during asummerquarter, 
to the parish school of Dalrymple. which, though 
between two and three miles distant, was the 
nearest to us, that we might have an opportuni- 
ty of remedying this defect. About this time 
a bookish acquaintance of my father's procured 
us a reading of two volumes of Richardson's 
Pamela, which was the first novel we read, and 
the only part of Richardson's works my brother 
was acquainted with till towards the period of 
his commencing author. Till that time, too, he 
remained unacquainted with Fielding, with 
Smollet, (two volumes of Ferdinand Count 
Fathom, and two volumes of Peregrine Fickle, 
excepted,) with Hume, with Robertson, and al- 
most all our authors of eminenc*^ of the later 
times. I recollect indeed my '' 'sorrowed a 

volume of English hisiory fro milton of 

Boiirtreehill's gardener. It he reign 

of James the First, ind 1 ite son, 

Charles, but I do not Know author; 

all that I remember of . hing of 

Charles's conversation with n. About 

this time Mnrdor'^, our fori cher, after 

having been in d ent places .ne country, 
and having taug school soit. me in Dum- 
fries, came to b e established icher of the 
English langu? . in Ayr, a c imstance of 
considerable cc isequence tons The remem- 
brance of my father's former frii 1? and his 
attachment to my brother, mad i every 

thing in his power for our im; v •. He 

sent us Pope's works, and son o loetry, 

the first 'hat we had an opport» ty jading, 

excep*' what is contained 7. English 
Collc' and in the volume c The . diidmrgh 

Mag ; for 1772; excepting .so / osc excel- 



lent new songs that are hawked about the coun- 
try in baskets, or e.'iposed on stalls in the streets. 

" The summer after we had been at Dalrym- 
ple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to re- 
vise his English grammar, with his former teach- 
er. He had been there only one week, when 
he was obliged to return to assist at the harvest. 
When the harvest was over, he went back to 
school, where he remained two weeks ; and 
this completes the account ol" his school educa- 
tion, excepting one summer quarter, some time 
afierwards, that he attended the parish school of 
Kirk-Oswald, (where he lived with a brother 
of my mother's,} to learn surveying. 

" During the two last weeks that he was with 
Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning 
l^'rench, and he communicated the instructions 
he received to my brother, who, when he re- 
turned, brought home with him a French dic- 
tionary and grammar, and the Adventures of 
Telemuchus in the original. In a little while, 
by the assistance of these books, he had acquired 
such a knowledge of the language, as to read 
and understand any French author in prose. 
This was considered as a sort of prodigy, and 
through the medium of Murdoch, procured him 
the acquaintance with several lads in Ayr, who 
were at that time gabbling P'rench. and the no- 
tice of some families, particularly that of Dr. 
Malcolm, where a knowledge of French was a 
recommendation. 

'* Observing the facility with which he had 
acquired the French language, Mr. Robinson, 
the established writing-inaster in Ayr, and Mr. 
Murdoch's particular friend, having himself ac 
quired a considerable knowledge of the Latin 
language by his own industry, without ever hav- 
ing learnt it at school, advised Robert to make 
the same attempt, promising hiin every assist- 
ance in his power. Agreeably to this advice, 
hepurchased Tlie Rudiments oftheLalin Tongue; 
but finding this study dry and uninteresting, 
it was quickly laid aside. He frequently re- 
turned to his Rudirne7its on any little chagrin 
or disappointment, particularly in his love af- 
fairs ; but the Latin seldom predominated more 
than a day or two at a time, or a week at most. 
Observing himself the ridicule that would at- 
tach to this sort of conduct if it were known, he 
made two or three humorous stanzas on the 
subject, whioh 1 cannot now recollect, but they 
all ended, 

" So I'll to my Latin again." 

" Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a princi- 
pal means of my brother's improvement. Wor- 
thy man ; though foreign to my present purpose, 
I cannot leave him without tracing his iuture 
history. He continued for some years a respect- 
ed and useful teacher at Ayr, till one evening 
that he had been overtaken in liquor, he hap- 
pened to speak somewhat disrespectfully of Dr. 
Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had not 
paid him that attention to which he thought him- 
self entitled. In Ayr he might as well have 
spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to give 
up his appointment. He went to London, where 
he still lives, a private teacher of French. He 
has been a considerable time married, and keeps 
a shop of stationary wares. 

" The father of Dr. Patterson, now physician 
at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, 
and was one of the established teachers in Ayr, 



/■ J 



172 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



when my father settled in the neighborhood. 
He early recognised my father as a lellow-uative 
of the north of Scotland, and a certain degree of 
intimacy subsisted between them during Mr. 
Patterson's life. After his death, his widow, 
who is a very genteel woman, of great worth, 
delighied in doing what she thought her hus- 
band would have wished to have done, and as- 
siduously kept up her attentions to all his ac- 
quaintance. She kept alive the intimacy with 
our family, by frequently inviting my father and 
mother to her house on Sundays, when she met 
them at church. 

'• When she came to know my brother's pas- 
sion for books, she kindly offered us the use of 
her husband's library, and from her we got the 
Spectator, Popes Tra7islatio7i of Homer, and sev- 
eral other books that were of use to us. Mount 
Oliphant, the farm my lather possessed in the 
parish of Ayr, is almost the very poorest soil I 
know of in a state of cultivation. A stronger 
proof of this I cannot give, than that notwith- 
standing the extraordinary rise in the value of 
lands in Scotland, it was, after a considerable 
sum laid out in improving it by the proprietor, 
let a few years ago five pounds per annum low- 
er than the rent paid lor it by my father thirty 
years ago. My father, in consequence of this, 
soon came into difficulties, which were increased 
by the loss of several of his cattle by accidents 
and diseases. — To the buftetings of misfortune, 
we could only oppose hard labor, and tlie most 
rigid economy. We lived very sparing. For 
several years butcher's meat was a stranger in 
the house, while all the members of the family 
exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength, 
and rather beyond it, in the labors of the farm. 
My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in 
thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the 
principal laborer on the farm, for we had no 
hired servant, male or female. I'he anguish of 
mind we felt, at our tender years, under these 
straits and difficulties, was very great. To think 
of our father growing old (for he was now above 
fifty,) broken down with the long continued fa- 
tigues of his life, with a wife and five other chil- 
dren, and in a declining state of circumstances, 
these reflections produced in my brother's mind 
and mine sensations of the deepest distress. 1 
doubt not but the hard labor and sorrow of this 
period of his life, was in a great measure the 
cause of that depression of spirits with which 
Robert was so often afflicted through his whole 
hfe afterwards. At this time he was almost con- 
stantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull head- 
ache, which at a future period of his life, was 
exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, and a 
threatening of fainting and suffocation in liis bed 
in the night-time. 

" By a stipula;ion in my father's lease he had 
a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at 
the end of every sixth year. He attempted to 
fix himself in a better farm at the end of the first 
six years, but failing in that attempt, he contin- 
ued where he was for six years more. He then 
took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at the 
rent of twenty shiUings an acre, in the parish of 

Tarbolton, of Mr. , then a niercliant in Ayr, 

and now (1797,) a merchant in Liverpool. He 
removed to this farm on Whitsunday, 1777, and 
possessed it only seven years. No writing had 
ever been made out of the conditions of the lease; 
a misunderstanding took place respecting them; 



the subjects in dispute were submitted to arbi- 
tration, and the decision involved my taiher's af- 
fairs ill ruin. He lived lo know of this decision, 
but not to see any execution in consequence of 
it. He died on ilie 13th of February, 178-4. 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton par- 
ish (extending from the seventeenth lo the twen- 
ty-fourth of my brother sage,) were not marked 
by much literary improvement ; but, during this 
time, the foundation was laid of certain habits in 
my brother's character, which became but too 
prominent, and which malice and envy have ta- 
ken delight to enlarge on. i'hough wiien young 
he was bashful and awkward in his intercouse 
with women, yet when he approached manhood, 
his attachment to their society became very 
strong, and he was constantly the victim of some 
fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were 
often such as nearly to equal those of the celebra- 
ted Sappho. 1 never indeed kndw that he fain- 
ted, sunk, and died away ; but the agi ations of 
his mind and body exceeded any thing of the 
kind I ever knew in real life. He had always 
a particular jealousy of people who were richer 
than himself, or who had more consequence in 
life. His love therefore rarely settled on persons 
of this description. When he selected any one 
out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to 
whom he should pay his particular aiiention, she 
was instantly invested with a sufficient stock of 
charms, out of a plentiful store of his own imagi- 
nation ; and there was olten a great dissimilitude 
between his fair captivaior, as she appeared to 
others, and as she seemed when invested with 
the attributes he gave her. One generally reign- 
ed paramount in his afiections ; but as Yorick's 
affections flowed out toward Madam de L — at 
the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza 
were upon him, so Robert was frequently en- 
countering other at'ractions, which formed so 
many underplots in the drama of his love. As 
these connections were governed by the strict- 
est rules of virtue and modesty (from which he 
never deviated till he reached his 23rd year,) he 
became anxious to be in a situation to marry. 
This was not likely to be soon the case while 
he remained a farmer, as the stocking of a farm 
required a sum of money he had no probability 
of being master of for a great while. He be- 
gan, therefore, to think of trying some other line 
of life. He and I had tor several years taken 
land of my father for the purpose of raising flax 
on our own account. In the course of selling 
it, Robert began to think of turning flax-dress° 
er, both as being suitable to his grand view of 
settling in life, and as subservient to the flax rais- 
ing. He accordingly wrought at the business 
of a flax-dresser in Irvine lor six months, but 
abandoned it at that period, as neither agreeing 
with his health nor inclination. In Irvine he had 
contracted some acquaintance of a freer manner 
of thinking and living than he had been used to, 
whose society prepared him for overleaping the 
boundsof rigid virtue which hadhilherto restiain- 
ed him. Towards the end of the period under 
review (in his 24th year,) and soon af er his 
father's death, he was furnished with the subject 
of h;s epistle to John Ranklin. During this pe- 
riod also he became a freemason, which was 
his flrst introduction to the life of a boon com- 
panion. Yet, notwithstanding these circum- 
stances, and the praise he has bestowed on 
Scotch drink (which seems to have niish^d his 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



173 



historians,) I do not recollect, during these sev- 
en years, nor till towards the end of his com- 
mencing author (when liis growing celebrity oc- 
casioned his being often in company.) to have 
ever seen hmi intoxicated ; nor was lie at all giv- 
en to drinking. A stronger proof of the general 
sobriety of his conduct need not be required than 
wiiat 1 am about to give. During the whole of 
the time we lived in the farm of Lochlea vvith 
my father, he allowed my brother and me such 
wages for our labor as he gave to other laborers, 
as a part of which every article of our clothing 
manufactured in the family was regularly ac- 
counted for. When my father's affairs drew 
near a crit^is, Robert and I took, the farm of Moss- 
giel, consisting of 118 acres, at the rent of 90/, 
per annum (the farm on which I live at present,) 
from Mr. Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the 
family in case of the worst. It was stocked by 
the property and individual savings of the whole 
family, and was a joint concern among us. Ev- 
ery member of the family was allowed ordina- 
ry wages for the labor he performed on the farm. 
My brother's allowance and mine was seven 
pounds per annum each. And during the whole 
lime this family concern lasted, which was fur 
four years, as well a?during the preceding peri- 
od at Lochlea, his expenses never in any one 
year exceeded his slender income. As I was 
intrusted with the keepingof the family accounts, 
it is not possible that there can be any fallacy 
in this statement in my brother's favor. His 
temperance and frugality were every thing that 
could be wished. 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bt)itom. The first four 
years that we were on the farm were very frosty, 
and ihe spring was very late. Our crops in 
consecjuence were very unprofitable ; and, not- 
withstanding our ut most diligence and economy, 
we found ourselves obliged to give up our bar- 
gain, with the loss of a considerable part of our 
original stock. It was during these four years 
that Robert formed his connection with Jean 
Armour, afterwards Mrs Burns. This con- 
nection could no lo7iger he concealed, about the 
time we came to a final determination to quit 
the farm. Robert durst not engage with his 
family in his poor unsettled state, but was anx- 
ious to shield his partner, by every means in 
his power, from the consequence of their im- 
prudence. It was agreed, therefore, between 
them, that they should make a legal acknow- 
ledgment of an irregular and private marriage ; 
that he should go to Jamaica to push hix fortune ! 
and that she should remain with her father till 
it might please Providence to put the means of 
supporting a family in his power. 

" Mrs. Burns was a great favorite of her 
father's. The intimation of a marriage was the 
first suggestion he received of her real situation. 
He was in the greatest distress, and fainted 
away. The marriage did not appear to him 
to make the matter better. A husband in Jamai- 
ca appeared to him and his wife little better 
than none, and an effectual bar to any other 
prospects of a settlement in life that tlieii- dau;^li- 
ter might have. They therefore expressed a 
wish to her. that the written papers which re- 
epected the marriage should be cancelled, and 
thus the marriage rendered void. In her me- 
lancholy state she felt the deepest remorse at 
having brought such heavy affliction on parents 



that loved her so tenderly, and submitted to 
their entreaties. Their wisli was mentioned to 
Robert. He felt the deepest anguish of mind. 
He (jffered to stay at home and provide for his 
wile and family in the best manner that his; daily 
lal)ors could provide for them ; that being the 
only means in his power. Even this offer ihey 
did not approve of; tor humble as Miss Armour's 
station was. and great though her imprudence 
had been, she still, in the eyes of her partial 
parents, might look to a better coimeciion than 
that with my friendless and unhappy brother, 
at that time without house or biding place. 
Robert at length consented to their wishes ; but 
his feelings on this occassion were of the most 
distracting nature : and the impression of sor. 
row was not effaced, till by a regular marriage 
they were indissolubly united. In the state of 
mind which this separation produced, he wished 
to leave the country as soon as possible, and 
agreed with Dr. Douglas to go out to Jamaica 
as an assistant overseer; or. as I believe it is 
called, a book-keeper, on his estate. As he 
had not sufficient money to pay his passage, 
and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas was to 
procure a passage for him was not expected to 
sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him 
to publish his poems in the mean time by sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a little 
money, to provide him more liberally in ne- 
cessaries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advice, 
subscription bills were printed immediately, 
and the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, 
his preparations going on at the same time for 
his voyage. The reception, however, which 
his poems met with in the world, and the friends 
they procured him, made him change his re 
solutions of going to Jamaica, and he was ad- 
vised to go to Edinburgh to publish a second 
edition. On his return, in happier circum- 
stances, he renewed his connection with Mrs. 
Burns, and rendered it permanent by a union 
for life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavored to give 
you a simple narrative of the leading circum 
stances in my brother's early life. The remain- 
ing part he spent in Edinburgh, or in Dumfrie- 
shire, and its incidents are as well known to 
you as to me. His genius having procured him 
your patronage and friendship, this gave rise to 
the correspondence between you, iu which, I 
believe, his sentiments were delivered with the 
most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, 
and which only terminated with the last days of 
his life." 



This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve 
as a commentary on the preceding sketch of 
our poet's life by himself. It will be seen that 
the distraction of mind which he mentions {p. 
160.) arose from the distress and sorrow in which 
he had involved his future wife. — The whole 
circumstances attending this connection are cer- 
taiiily of a very singular nature.* 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing 
narrative, how much the children of William 

*In page IfiO. the poet mentions hi.s — " sknlk'ngtVom 
covert to covert, under ilie terror of a jail." The 
" p:ick of the law" was " uncoupled at h s heels," to 
ol)l ge him lo find security tor the m.-iiiitenance of hi* 
twin children, whom he was not permiUed to legiti- 
mate by a marriage with iheir mother. 



174 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Burnes were indebted to their father, who was 
certainly a man of uncommon talents; though it 
does not appear that he possessed any portion of 
that vivid nnagination for which the subject of 
these memoirs was distinguished. In page 167, 
it is observed by our poet, tiiat his father had 
an unaccountable antipathy to dancing-schools, 
and that his attending one of these brought on 
him his displeasure, and even dislike. On this 
observation Gilbert has made the following re- 
mark, which seems entitled to implicit credit : — 
" I wonder how Robert could attribute to our fa- 
ther that lasting resentment of his going to a danc- 
ing-school agamst his will, of which he was in- 
capable. I believe the truth was. that he, about 
this time began to see the dangerous impetuos- 
ity of my brother's passions, as well as his not 
being amenable to counsel, which often irritat- 
ed my father ; and which he would naturally 
think a dancing-school was not likely to correct. 
But he was proud of Robert's genius, which he 
bestowed more expense in cultivating than on 
the rest of the family, in the instances of send- 
ing him to Ayr and Kirk- Oswald schools ; and 
he was greatly delighted with his warmth of 
heart, and his conversational powers. He had 
indeed that dislike of dancing-schools which 
Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it during 
Robert's lirst month of attendance, that he al- 
lowed all the rest of the family that were fit for 
it to accompany him during the second month. 
Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some 
time distractedly fond of it." 

In the original letter to Dr. Moore, our poet 
described his ancestors as " renting lands of the 
noble Keiths of Marischal, and as having had 
the honor of sharing their fate." "I do not," 
continues he, •' use the word hoiior with any 
reference to political principles; loyal and dis- 
loyal, I take to be merely relative terms, in that 
ancient and formidable court, known in this 
country by the name of Club-law, where the 
right is always with the strongest. But those 
who dare welcome ruin, and shake hands with 
infamy, for what they sincerely believe to be 
the cause of their God, or their king, are, as 
Mark Antony says, in Shakspeare, of Brutus 
and Cassius, honorahle men. I mention this 
circumstance because it threw my father on the 
world at large." 

This paragraph has been omitted in printing 
the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns; and 
it would have been unnecessary to have notic- 
ed it on the present occasion, had not several 
manuscript copies of that letter been in cir- 
culation. " 1 do not know," observes Gilbert 
Burns, "how my brother could be misled in 
the account he has given of the Jacobitism of 
his ancestors. — I believe the earl Marischal for- 
feited his title and estate in 1715, before my 
father wasborn ; and among a collection of parish 
certificates in his possession, I have read one, 
stating that the bearer had no concern in the 
late wicked rehelUonV On the information of 
one, who knew William Burnes soon after he 
arrived in the county of Ayr, it may be men- 
tioned, that a report did prevail, that he had 
taken the field with the young Chevalier; a re- 
port which the certificate mentioned by his son 
was, perhaps, intended to counteract. Strangers 
from the north, settling in the low country of 
Scotland, were in those days liable to suspicions 
of having been, in the familiar phrase of the 



country, " Out in the forty-five." (1745) espe- 
cially when they had any stateiiness or reserve 
about them, as was the case with William 
Burnes. It may easily be conceived, that our 
poet would cherish the belief of his father's 
having been engaged in the daring enterprise 
of Prince Charles Edward. The generous at- 
tachment, the heroic valor, and the final mis- 
fortunes of the adherents of the house of Stewart, 
touched with sympathy his youthful and ardent 
mind, and influenced his original political opin- 
ions.* 

The father of our poet is described by one who 
knew him towards the latter end of his life, as 
above the common stature, thin, and bent with 
labor. His countenance was serious and ex- 
pressive, and the scanty locks on his head were 
gray. He was of a religious turn of mind, and, 
as is usual among the Scottish peasantry, a 
good deal conversant in speculative theology. 
There is in Gilbert's hands a little manual of 
religious belief, in the form of a dialogue be- 
tween a father and his son, composed by him 
for the use of his children, in which the benev- 
olence of his heart seems to have led him to 
soften the rigid Calvinism of the Scottish Church 
into something approaching to Arminianism. 
He was a devout man, and in the practice of 
calling his family together to join in prayer. It 
is known that the exquisite picture, drawn in 
stanzas xii. xiii. xiv. xv. xvi. and xviii. of the 
Cotter s Saturday Night., represents William 
Burnes and his family at their evening devo- 
tions. 

Ofa family so interesting as that which in- 
habited the cottage of William Burnes, and 
particularly of the father of the family, the reader 
will perhaps be willing to listen to some farther 
account. What follows is given by one already 
mentioned with so much honor in the narrative 
of Gilbert Burns, Mr. Murdoch, the preceptor 
of our poet, who, in a letter to Joseph Cooper 
Walker, Esq. of Dublin, author of the HiS' 
torical Memoirs of the Irish Bards, and the 
Historical Memoirs of the Italian Tragedy, thus 
expresses himself: 

*Tliere i.s another observation of Gilbert Burns on 
his brother's narrative, in whicli some per.sons will be 
interested. It refers to where the poet speaks of his 
youthful friends. " My brother,"' says Gilbert Burns, 
"seenis to set off his early companions in too conse- 
quential a manner. The principal acquaintances we 
had in Ayr, while Doys. were four sons of Air. Andrew 
M'Culloch, a distant relation of my mothi^r's, who kept 
a tea shop, and had made a little money in ihe contra- 
band trade very common at that time. He died while 
the boys were young, and my father was nominated 
one of the tutors. The two eldest were bred up .shop- 
keepers, the third a surgeon, and the youngest, the 
only surviving one, was bred in a counting-house in 
Glasgow, where he is now a lespectaiile mercliant- 
I believe all these boys went to the West Indies. Then 
there were two sons of Dr. Malcolm, whom I have 
mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Duul.jp. The eldest, 
a very worthy young man, wont to the East Indies, 
where he had a commission in the army; he is the 
person whose heart my brother says the Munij Begum 
scenes coxild not corrupt. The other, by ilie interest of 
liady Wallace, got an ensigncy in a regiment raised 
by the Duke of Hamilton, during the American war. 
I believe neither of them are now (1797) alive. We 
also knew the present Dr. Patterson of Ayr, and a 
younger brother of his, now in Jamaica, who were 
much younger than us. I had almost forgot to mention 
Dr. Charles of Ayr, who was a little older than my 
brother, and with whom we had a longer and closer 
iiuimacy than with any of the others, which did not, 
however, continue in after life." 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



175 



" SrR, — I was lately favored with a letter j 
from our worlhy friend, liie Rev. Win. Adair, 
in which he requested nie to coiiimuiiicate to 
you whatever particulars 1 could recollect con- 
cerning Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My 
business being at present multifarious and har- 
assing, my attention is consequently so much 
divided, and I am so little in the habit of ex- 
pressing my thoughts on paper, that at this dis- 
tance ot time I can give but a very imperfect 
sketch of the early part of the life of that ex- 
traordinary genius, with which alone I am ac- 
quainted. 

•■ William Burnes, the father of the poet, was 
born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred a 
gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire ten 
or twelve years before I knew him, and had 
been in the service of xVIr. Crawford, of Doon- 
side. He was afterwards employed as a gar- 
dener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of 
Doonholm, in the parish of AUoway, which is 
now united with that of Ayr. In this parish, 
on the road side, a Scotch mile and a half from 
the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the 
bridge of Doon, William Burnes took a piece 
of land, consisting of about seven acres ; part 
of which he laid out in garden ground, and part 
of which he kept to graze a cow, &c., still con- 
tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson. 
Upon this little farm was erected an humble 
dwelling, of which William Burnes was the 
architect. It was. with the exception of a little 
straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In this 
mean cottage, of which I myself was at times 
an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a 
larger portion of content than in any palace in 
Europe. 'I'he Cotter's Saturday Night will 
give some idea of the temper and manners that 
prevailed there. 

" In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr. 
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school 
where I was improving in writing, under my 
good. friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that 1 would 
come and speak to him at a certain inn, and 
bring my writmg-book with me. This was 
immediately complied with. Having examined 
my writing, he was pleased with it — (you will 
readily allow he was not difficult,) and told me 
that he had received very satisfactory informa- 
tion of Mr. Tennant, the master of the English 
school, concerning my improvement in English, 
and his method of teaching. In the month of 
May following, I was engaged by Mr. Burnes, 
and four of his neighbors, to teach, and accord- 
ingly began to teach the little school at AUo- 
way, which was situated a few yards from the 
argillaceous fabric above-mentioned. My five 
employers undertook to board me by turns, and 
to make up a certain salary, at the end of the 
year, provided my quarterly payments from the 
different pupils did not amount to that sum. 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
six and seven years of age ; his preceptor about 
eighteen. Robert, and his younger brother, 
Gilbert, had been grounded a little in English 
before they were put under my care. They 
both made a rapid progress in reading, and a 
tolerable progress in writing. In reading, divid- 
ing words into syllables by rule, spelling with- 
out book, parsing sentences, &c., Robert and 
Gilbert were generally at the upper end o( the 
class, even when ranged with boys by far their 
seniors. The books most commonly used in 



the school were the Spelling Book, the New 
Ttst'i>n'>.nt. the Bible, j)I(tso7i's Collect io7t of 
Prose and Verse, and Fislier''s English Gram- 
mar. 'I'hey committed to memory the hymns, 
and other poems of that collection, with un- 
common facility. This facility was partly ow- 
ing to the method pursued by their lather and 
me in instructing them, which was, to make 
them thoroughly acquainted with the meaning 
of every word in each sentence that was to be 
committed to memory. By the by, this may be 
easier done, and at an earlier period than is gen- 
erally tht)ught. As soon as they were capable 
of it, I taught them to turn verse into its nat- 
ural prose order; sometimes to substitute sy- 
nonymous expressions for poetical words, and to 
supply all the ellipses. These, you know, are 
the means of knowing that the pupil understands 
his author. 'I'hese are excellent helps to the 
arrangement o^ words in sentences, as well as 
to a variety of expression. 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a 
more lively imagination, and to be more of the 
wit than Robert. I attempted to teach them 
a little church-music : here they were left far be- 
hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, 
in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice 
untunable. It was long before I could get them 
to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's 
countenance was generally grave, and expres- 
sive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughful 
mind. Gilbert's face said, Mirth, with thee 1 
mean to live ; and certainly, if any person who 
knew the two boys, had been asked which ofthem 
was most likely to court the muses, he would 
surely never have guessed that Robert had a 
propensity of that kind. 

" In the year 1769, Mr. Burnes quitted his 
mud edifice, and took possession of a farm 
(Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while 
in the service of Provost Ferguson. 'I'his farm 
being a considerable distance from the school, 
the boys could not attend regularly ; and some 
changes taking place among the other support- 
ers of the school, I left it, having continued to 
conduct it for nearly two years and a half. 

" In the year 1772, I was appointed (being 
one of five candidates who were examined) to 
teach the English school at Ayr ; and in 1773, 
Robert Burns came to board and lodge with me, 
for the purpose of revising the English grammar, 
&-C. that he might be better qualilied to instruct 
his brothers and sisters at home. He was now 
with me day and night in school, at all meals, 
and in all my walks. At the end of one week, 
I told him. that as he was now pretty much the 
master of the parts of speech, &c., I should like 
to teach him something of French pronunciation; 
that when he should meet with the name of a 
French town, ship, officer, or the like, in the 
newspapers, he might be able to pronounce it 
something like a French word. Robert was glad 
to hear this proposal, and immediately we at- 
tacked the French with great courage. 

" Now there was little else to be heard but 
the declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs, 
(fee. When walking together, and even at 
meals, I was constantly telling him the names 
of different objects as they presented them.selves 
in French ; so that he was hourly laying in a 
stock of words, and sometimes little phrases. 
In short, he took such pleasure in learning, and 
I in teaching, that it was difficult to say which 



176 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



of the two was most zealous in the business ; 
and about the end of ihe second week of our 
study of the French, we began to read a little 
of the Adventures of Telemachus, in Fenelon's 
own words. 

" But now the plains of Mount Oliphant be- 
gan to whiten, and Robert was summoned to 
relinquish the pleasing scenes that surrounded 
the grotto of Calypso ; and armed with a sickle, 
to seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields 
of Ceres — and so he did ; for although but about 
fifteen, f was told he performed the work of a 
man. 

" Thus was I deprived of a very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable companion, at the 
end of three weeks, one of which was spent en- 
tirely in the study of Bnglish, and the other two 
chiefly in that of French. I did not, however, 
lose sight of him ; but was a frequent visitant at 
his father's house, when I had my half-holi- 
day ; and very often went, accoiripanied with 
one or two persons more intelligeni than myself, 
that good William Burnes might enjoy a men- 
tal feast. Then the laboring oar was shifted to 
some other hand. The father and son sat down 
with us, when we enjoyed a conversation where- 
in solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a mod- 
erate seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely blen- 
ded as to render it palatable to all parties. Rob- 
ert had a hundred questions to ask me about the 
French, &c. ; and the father, who had always 
rational information in view, had still some ques- 
tion to propose to my more learned friends, up- 
on moral or natural philosophy, or some such in- 
teresting subject. Mrs. Burnes too was of the 
party as much as possible ; 

" But still the hoii*e affairs would draw her thence, 
Which evtr as she could with hasie despatch, 
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse,'"— 

and particularly that of her husband. At all 
limes, and in all companies, she listened to him 
with a more marked attention than to any body 
else. When under the necessity of beitig ab- 
sent while he was speaking, she seemed to re- 
gret, as a real loss, that she had tnissed what 
the good man had said. This worthy woman, 
Agnes Brown, had the most thorough esteem for 
her husband of any woman I ever knew. I can 
by no means wonder that she highly esteemed 
him ; for 1 rryself have always considered Wil- 
liam Burnes as by far the best of the human 
race that ever I had the pleasure of being ac- 
quainted with — and many a worthy character I 
have known. J can cheerfully join with Rob- 
ert, in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from 
Goldsmith,) 

" And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 
" He was an excellent husband, if I may judge 
from his assiduous attention to the ease and com- 
fort of his worthy partner, and from her affec- 
tionate behavior ro him, as well as her unwear- 
ied attention to the duties of a mother. 

" He was a tender and affecti(mate father; he 
took pleasure in leading his children in the path 
of virtue ; not in driving them as some parents 
do, to the performance of duties to which they 
themselves are averse, lie took care to find 
fault very seldom ; and therefore when he did re- 
buke, he was listened to with a kind of rever- 
ential awe. A look of disapprobation was felt ,• 
a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe with the 



tawz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart- 
felt pain, produced a loud lamentation, and 
brought forth a flood of tears. 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good-will of those that were lal)orers under him. 
I think I never saw him angry but twice ; the 
one time it was with the foreman of the band, 
for not reaping the field as he was desired ; and 
the other tune it was with an old man, for using 
smutty inuendoes and double tntendres. Were 
every foul-mouthed old man to receive a season- 
able check in this way, it would be to the ad- 
vantage of the rising generation. As he was at 
no time overbearing to inferiors, he was equally 
incapable of that passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that 
induces some people to keep booing and booing 
in the presence of a great man. He always treat- 
ed superiors with a becoming respect : but he 
never gave the smallest encouragement to aris- 
tocratical arrogance. But 1 must not pretend to 
give you a description of all the manly qualities, 
the rational and Christian virtues, of the vener- 
able William Burnes. Time would fail me. I 
shall only add, that he carefully piaciised every 
known duty, and avoided every thing that was 
criminal ; or, in the apostle's words, Herein did 
he exercise himself in living a life void ofof- 
fence touiards God and towards men. O tor a 
world of men of such dispositions ! We should 
then have no wars. I have often wished, for the 
good of mankii.d, that it were as customary to 
honor and perpetuate the memory of those who 
excel in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what 
are called heroic actions : then would the mau- 
soleum of the friend of my youth overtop and 
surpass most of the monuments I see in West- 
minster Abbey. 

" Although I cannot do justice to the charac- 
ter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive 
from these few particulars, what kind of person 
had the principal hand in the education of our 
poet. He spoke the English language with more 
propriety (both with respect to diction and pro- 
nunciation,) than any man I ever knew with 
no greater advantages, 'i'hts had a very good 
effect on the boys, who began to talk and rea- 
son like men. much sooner than their neighbors. 
I do not recollect any of their contemporaries, at 
my little seminary, who afterwards made any 
great figure, as literary characters, except Dr. 
Tennant, who was chaplain to Colonel Fullar- 
ton's regiment, and who is now in the East In- 
dies. He is a man of genius and learning; yet 
affable, and free from pedantry. 

" Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he 
had over-rated Mount Oliphant, and that he 
could not rear his numerous family upoii it. Af- 
ter being there some years, he removed fo Loch- 
lea, in the parish of I'arbolton, where, I believe, 
Robert wrote the most of his poems. 

" But here. Sir, you will pennit me to pause. 
I can tell you t)ut little more relative to our poet 
I shall, however, in my next, send you a copy ot 
one of his letters to me, about the year 1783. 
I received one since, but it is mislaid. Please re- 
member me. in the best manner, to my worthy 
friend Mr. Adair,*,when you see him, or write 
to him. ^ 

" Hart-street, Bhomsbury-Square,) 
London, Feb. 22, 1789." 5 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was writ- 
ten at a time when he was ignorant of the ex- 
istence of the preceding narrative of his brother, 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



177 



so this letter of Mr. Murdoch was written with- 
out his having any knowledge that either of his 
pupils had been employed on the same subject. 
Tlie three relations serve, therefore, not mere- 
ly to illustrate, but to authenticate each other. 
Though the information they convey might 
have been presented within a shorter compass, 
by reducing the whole into one unbroken narra- 
tive, it is scarcely to be doubled, that the in- 
telligent reader will be far more graiitied by a 
a sight of these original documents tliem- 
selves. 

Under the humble roof of his parents, it ap- 
pears indeed that our poet had great advantages: 
but his opportunities of information at school 
were more limited as to tiine than they usu- 
ally are among his countrymen in his condition 
of life ; and the acquisitions which he made, and 
the poetical talent which he exerted, under the 
pressure of early and incessant toil, and of in- 
ferior, and perhaps scanty nutriment, testify at 
once the extraordinary force and activity of his 
mind. In his frame of body he rose nearly to 
five feet ten inches, and assumed the propor- 
tions that indicate agility as well as strength. 
In the various labors of the farin he excelled 
all his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares 
that in mowing, the exercise that tries all the 
muscles most severely, Robert was the only 
man, that at the end of a summer's day he was 
ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. But 
though our poet gave the powers of his body to 
the labors of the farm, he refused to bestow on 
them his thoughts or his cares. While the 
ploughshare under his gtiidance passed through 
the sward, or the grass fell under the sweep of 
his scythe, he was humming the songs of his 
country, musing on the deeds of ancient valor, 
or rapt in the illusions of Fancy, as her en- 
chantments rose on his view. Happily the 
Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man and 
beast rest from their labors. On this day, there- 
fore, Burns could indulge in a free intercourse 
with the charms of nature. It was his delight 
to wander alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose 
stream is now immortal, and to listen to the 
song of the blackbird at the close of the summer's 
day. But still greater was his pleasure, as he 
himself informs us, in walking on the sheltered 
side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and 
hearing the storm rave among the trees ; and 
more elevated still his delight, to ascend some 
eminence during the agitations of nature; to 
stride along its summit, while the lightning 
flashed around him ; and amidst the howlings 
of the tempest, to apostrophize the spirit of the 
storm. Such situations he declares most favor- 
able to devotion. — " Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem 
to ascend towards Him who ivtlks on the vu'ngs 
of the ivinds .'" If other proofs were wanting of 
the character of his genius, this might determine 
it. The heart of the poet is peculiarly awake 
to every impression of beauty and sublimity ; 
but, with the higher order of poets, the beauti- 
ful is less attractive than the sublime. 

The gayety of many of Burns's writings, and 
the lively, and even cheerful coloring with which 
he has portrayed his own character, may lead 
some persons to suppose, that the melancholy 
which hung over him towards the end of his 
days was not an original part of his constitution. 
It is not to be doubted, indeed, that this melan- 
choly acquired a darker hue in the progress of 
1 Jj 



his life ; but, independent of his own and of 
his brother's testimony, evidence is to be found 
among his papers, that he was subject very early 
to those depressions of mind, which are perhaps 
not wholly separate Irom the sensibility of ge- 
nius, but which in him rose to an uncommon 
degree. The following letter, addressed to his 
father, will serve as a proof of this observation. 
It was written al the time when he was learn- 
ing the busmcss of a flax-dresser, and is da- 
ted, 

Irvine, December 27, 1781. 
"Honored Sir — 1 have purposely delayed 
writing, in the hope that I should have the 
pleasure of seeing you on New-year's-day, but 
work comes so hard upon us, that I do not choose 
to be absent on that account, as well as for some 
other little reasons, which I shall tell you at 
meeting. My health is nearly the same as 
when you were here, only my sleep is a little 
sounder; and, on the whole, I am rather better 
than otherwise, though I incnd by very slow 
degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so 
debilitated my mind, that I dare neither review 
past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; for 
the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast, 
produces most unhappy effects on my whole 
frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour 
or two my spirits are a little lightened, I glim- 
mer into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed 
my only pleasurable employment, is looking 
backwards and forwards in a moral and relig- 
ious way. I am transported at the thought, that 
ere long, very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu 
to all the pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes 
of this weary life ; for I assure you I am heartily 
tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive 
myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign 
it, 

'The soul, uneasy, and confin'd at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased with 
the 15th, 16th, and 17tli verses of the 7th chapter 
of Revelations, than with any ten times as many 
verses in the whole Bible, and would not ex- 
change the noble enthusiasm with which they 
inspire me, for all that this world has to offer.* 
As for this W(jrld, I despair of ever making a 
figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of 
the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall 
never again be capable of entering into such 
scenes. Indeed I am altogether unconcerned 
at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that pov- 
erty and obscurity probably await me. I am in 
some measure prepared, and daily preparing to 
meet them. I have but just time and paper to 
return you my grateful thanks for the lessons 
of virtue and piety you have given me, which 
were too much neglected at the time of giving 
them, but which, I hope, have been remem- 
bered ere it is yet too late. Present my duti- 
ful respects to my mother, and my compliments 
to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing you 

*Thc verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as 
follows : 

15. Therefore are they before the throne of God, 
and serve him day a nd niirht in his temple ; and tie that 
sitteth ov the thone shall dwell among them. 

16. They shall hunirer no more, neither thirst any 
more ; neither shall thesiin Hirht on them, nor any heat. 

j 17. For the Lamb, irh'rh is in the midst of the throne, 
, shall feed them, and shull lead them unto tivini^ foun- 
' tains of water ; and God shall U'ipe away all tears 
from their eyes. 



178 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



a merry New-year's-day, T shall conclude. I 
am, honored Sir, your dutiful son, 

" Robert Burns." 

" P. S. My meal is nearly out ; but I am go- 
ing to borrow, till I get more." 

This letter, written several years before the 
publication of his poems, when his name was 
as obscure as his condition was humble, dis- 
plays the philosophic melancholy which so gen- 
erally forms the poetical temperament, and that 
buoyant and ambitious spirit which indicates a 
mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, 
Burns at this time possessed a single room for 
his lodging, rented perhaps at the rate of a shil- 
ling a week. He passed his days in constant 
labor as a flax-dresser, and his food consisted 
chiefly of oatmeal, sent to him from his father's 
family. The store of this humble, though 
wholesome nutriment, it appears, was nearly 
exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he 
should obtain a supply. Yet even in this situ- 
ation, his active imagination had formed to itself 
pictures of eminence and distinction. His de- 
spair of making a figure in the world, shows 
how ardently he wished for honorable fame ; 
and his contempt of life, founded on this despair, 
is the genuine expression of a youthtul and 
generous mind. In such a state of reflection, 
and of suffering, the imagination of Burns, nat- 
urally passed the dark boundaries of our earthly 
horizon, and rested on those beautiful repre- 
sentations of a belter world, where there is nei- 
ther thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow ; and where 
happiness shall be in proportion to the capacity 
of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at vari- 
ance with social enjoyments. Those who have 
studied the affinities of mind, know that a mel- 
ancholy of this description, after a while, seeks 
relief in the endearments of society, and that it 
has no distant connection with the (low of cheer- 
fulness, or even the extravagance of mirth. It 
was a few days after the writing of this letter 
that our poet, "in giving a welcome carousal 
to the new-year, wiih his gay companions," 
sufl^ered his flax to catch fire, and his shop to be 
'Consumed to ashes. 

The energy of Burns's mind was not exhaust - 
led by his daily labors, the eflusion of his muse, 
his social pleasures, or his solitary meditations. 
Some time previous to his engagement as a flax- 
idresser, having heard that a debaiing-club had 
;been established in Ayr. he resolved to try how 
«uch a meeting would succeed in the village of 
Tarbolton. About the end of the year 17S0, 
eur poet, his brother, and five other young 
peasants of the neighborhood, formed them- 
selves into a society of this sort, the declared 
objects of which were to relax themselves after 
toil, to promote sociality and friendship, and to 
improve the mind. The laws and regulations 
were 'furnished by Burns. The members were 
to raeet after the labors of the day were over, 
once a week, in a small public-house in the vil- 
lage; where each should offer his opinion on a 
given question or subject, supporting it by such 
arguments as he thought proper. 'I'he debate 
was to he conducted with order and decorum ; 
and after it was finished, the members were to 
choose a subject for discussion at the ensuing 
meeting. The sum expended by each was not 
to exceed threepence; and, with the humble 
potation that this could procure, they were to 



toast their mistresses, and to cultivate friend- 
ship with each other. This society continued 
its meetings regularly for some time; and in 
the autumn of 1782, wishing to preserve some 
account of their proceedings, they purchased a 
book, into which their laws and regulations were 
copied, with a preamble, containinig a short 
history of their transactions down to that period. 
This curious document, which is evidently the 
work of our poet, has been discovered, and it 
deserves a place m his memoirs. 
" History of the Rise, Proceedings, and Regulations 
of the Bachelor's Club. 
" Of birth or blood we do not boast. 
Nor gentry does our club afford ; 
But ploughmen and mechanics we 
In Nature's simple dress record." 

" As the great end of human society is to be- 
come wiser and better, this ought therefore to 
be the principal view of every man in every sta- 
tion of life. But as experience has taught us, 
that such studies as inform the head and mend 
the heart, when long continued, are apt to ex- 
haust the faculties of the mind, it has been found 
proper to relieve and unbend the mind by some 
employment or another, that may be agreeable 
enough to keep its powers in exercise, but at 
the same time not so serious as to exhaust them. 
But, superadded to this, by far the greater part 
of mankind are under the necessity of ear?i.iii.g 
the suslenaJice of human life by the labors of their 
bodies, whereby, not only the faculties of the 
mind, but the nerves and sinews of the body, 
are so fatigued, that it is absolutely necessary to 
have recourse to some amu.sement or diversion, 
to relieve the wearied man, worn down with the 
necessary labors of life. 

''As the best of things, however, have been 
perverted to the worst of purposes, so, under the 
pretence of amuset7ient and diversion, men have 
plunged into all the madness of riot and dissipa- 
tion ; and. instead of attending to the grand de- 
sign of human life, they have begun with extrav- 
agance and folly, and ended with guilt and 
wretchedness. Impressed with these consider- 
ations, we, the following lads in the parish of 
Tarbolton, t;7'z. Hugh Reid. Robert Burns. Gil- 
bert Burns. Alexander Brown, Waller Mitchell, 
Thomas Wright, and William MGavin. resolv- 
ed, for our mutual entertainment, to unite our- 
selves into a club, or society, under such rules 
and regulations, that while we should forget our 
labor, in mirth and diversion, we might not 
transgress the bounds of innocence and decorum; 
and after agreeing on these, and some other reg- 
ulations, we held our fit st meeting at Tarbolton, 
in the house of John Richard, upon the evening 
of the 11th of Novem!)er, 17S0. commonly call- 
ed Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Burns 
president for the night, we proceeded to debate 
on this question — Suppose a young ma?i, bred a 
farmer, but without a7iy fortune, has it in his 
power to marry dther of two iiomcn, the one a 
girl of large fortune, but neilJur handsome in 
person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who 
can majiage the household affairs of a farm well 
enough; the other of them a girl every way agree- 
able ill, conversation, and behavior, bii' irilhout 
any fortune: which of therri shall hr chf^ost? Find- 
ing ourselves happy, in our society, we resolv 
ed to continue to meet once a month in the same 
house, in the way and manner proposed, and 
shortly thereafter, we chose Robert Ritchie for 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



179 



another member. In May, 1781, we brought 
in David Sillar,* and in June Adam Jamaison, 
as members. About the beginning of the year 
1782, we admitted Matthew Patterson, and John 
Orr, and in June following we chose James Pat- 
terson as a proper brother for such a society. 
The club being thus increased, we resolved to 
meet at Tarbolion on the race night, the July fol- 
lowing, and have a dance in honor of our society. 
Accordingly we did meet, each one with a part- 
ner, and spent the evening in such innocence and 
merriment, such cheerfulness and good humor, 
that every brother will long remember it with 
pleasure and delight." To this preamble are 
subjoined the rules and regulations t 

The philosophical mind will dwell with inter- 
est and pleasure, on an institution that combin- 
ed so skillfully the means of instruction and of 
happiness, and if grandeur looks down wiih a 
smile on these simple annals, let us trust that it 
will be a smile of benevolence and approbation. 
It is with regret that the sequel of the history of 
the Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton must be told. 
It survived several years after our poet removed 
from Ayrshire ; but no longer sustained by his 
talents, or cemented by his social affection, its 
meetings lost much of their attraction ; and at 
length, in an evil hour, dissension arising among 
its members, the institution was given up, and 
the records committed to the flames. Happily 
the preamble and regulations were spared; and as 
matter of instruction and of example, they are 
transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from 
Tarbolton to the neighborhood of Mauchline, 
he and his brother were requested to assist in 
forming a similar institution there. The regu- 
lations of the club at Matichline were nearly the 
same as those of the club at Tarbolton ; but one 
laudable alteration was made. The fines for non- 
attendance had at Tarbolton been spent in en- 
larging iheir scanty potations ; at Mauchline it 
was fixed, that the money so arising, should be 
set apart for the purchase of books, and the first 
work procured in this manner was the Mirror, 
the separate numbers of which were at that time 
recently collected and published in volumes. 
After it followed a number of other works, chief- 
ly of the same nature, and among these the 
Lounger. The society of Mauchline stiil sub- 
sists, and appeared in the list of subscribers to 
the first edition of the works of its celebrated 
associate. 

The members of these two societies were orig- 
inally all young men from the country, and chief- 
ly sons of farmers; a description of persons, in the 
opinion of our poet, more agreeable in their man- 
ners, Hiore virtuous in their conduct, and more 
susceptible of improvement, than the self-suf- 
ficient mechanics of country-towns. With def- 
erence to the conversation society of Mauchline. 
it may be doubted, whether the books which 
they purchased were of a kind best adapted 
to promote the interest and happiness of persons 
in this situation of life. The Mirror and the 
Lou?t<rer, though works of great merit, may be 
said: on a general view of their contents, to be 
Jess calculated to increase the knowledge, than 
to refine the taste of those who read them ; and 
to this last object, their morality itself, may be 

*'rhe person to whom Burns addressed his Epistle 
to Davie, a brother poet. 

* For which see Appendix, No. II., JSTote C. 



considered as subordinate. As works of taste, 
they deserve great praise. They are indeed re- 
fined to a high degree of delicacy ; and to this 
circumstance it is perhaps owing, that they ex- 
hibit little or nothing of the peculiar manners of 
the age or country in which they were produced, 
But delicacy of taste, though the source ol many 
pleasures, is not without many disadvantages ; 
and to render it desirable, the possessor should 
perhaps in all cases be raised above the neces- 
sity of bodily labor, unless indeed we should in- 
clude under this term the exercise of the imita- 
tive arts, over which taste immediately presides. 
Delicacy of taste may be a blessing to him who 
has the disposal of his own time, and who can 
choose what book he shall read, of what diver- 
sion he shall partake, and what company he shall 
keep. To men so situated, the cultivation of 
taste affords a gratefiil occupation in itself, and 
opens a path to many other gratifications. To 
men of genius, in the possession of opulence and 
leisure, the cultivation of the taste may be said 
to be essential ; and since it affords employment 
to those faculties, which without employment 
would destroy the happiness of the possessor, 
and corrects that morbid sensibility, or, to use 
the expressions of Mr. Hume, that delicacy of 
passion, which is the bane of the temperament 
of genius. Happy had it been for our bard, af- 
ter he had emerged from the condition ofa peas- 
ant, had the delicacy of his taste equalled the 
sensibility of his passions, regulating all the ef- 
fusions of his nmse, and presiding over all his 
social enjoyments. But to the thousands who 
share the original condition of Burns, and who 
are doomed to pass their lives in the station in 
which they were born, delicacy of taste, were 
it even of easy attainment, would, if not a posi- 
tive evil; be at least a doubtful blessing. Delica- 
cy of taste may make many necessary labors 
irksome or disgusting ; and should it render the 
cultivator of the soil unhappy in his situation, 
it presents no means by which that situation may 
be improved. I'aste and literature, which dif- 
fuse so many charms throughout society, which 
sometimes secure to their votaries distinction 
while living, and which still more frequently 
obtain for them posthumous fame, seldom pro- 
cure opulence, or even independence, when cul- 
tivated with the utmost attention; andean scarce- 
ly !)e pursued with advantage by the peasant in 
the short intervals of leisure which ^is occu- 
pations allow, 'i'hose who raise themselves from 
the condition of daily labor, are usually men 
who excel in the practice of some useful art, or 
who join habits of industry and sobrieiy to an 
acquaintance with some of the more common 
branches of knowledge. The pentnanship of 
Butterworth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, may 
be studied by men in the humblest walks of life; 
and they will assist the peasant more in the pur- 
suit of independence, than the study of Homer 
or of Shakspeare, though he could comprehend, 
atid even imitate the beauties of those immortal 
bards. 

These observations are not offered without 
some portion of doubt and hesitation. The 
subject has many relations, and would justify 
an ample di.«cussion. It may be observed, or 
the other hand, that the first step to improve, 
ment is to awaken the desire of improvement 
and that this will be most efleciually done hf 
such reading as interests the heart and excites 



180 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



the imagination. The greater part of the sa- 
cred writings themselves, which in Scotland are 
more especially the manual of the poor, come 
ander this description. It may be farther ob- 
served, that every human being, is the proper 
judge of his own happiness, and within the path 
of innocence, ought to be permitted to pursue 
it. Since it is the taste of the Scottish peasantry 
to give a preference to works of taste and of 
fancy,* it may be presumed they find a superior 
gratification in the perusal of such works; and 
it may be added, that it is of more consequence 
they should be made happy in their original 
condition, than furnished with the means, or 
with the desire of rising above it. Such consid- 
erations are doubtless of much weight ; never- 
theless, the previous reflections may deserve to 
be examined, and here we shall leave the sub- 
ject. 

Though the records of the society at Tarbol- 
ton are lost, and those of the society at Mauch- 
line have not been transmitted, yet we may 
safely affirm, that our poet was a distinguished 
member of both these associations, which were 
well calculated to excite and to develop the 
powers of his mind. From seven to twelve 
persons constituted the society of Tarbolton, 
and such a number is best suited to the pur- 
poses of information. Where this is the object 
of these societies, the number should be such, 
that each person may have an opportunity of 
imparting his sentiments, as well as of receiv- 
ing those of others ; and the powers of private 
conversation are to be employed, not those of 
public debate. A limited society of this kind, 
where the subject of conversation is fixed be- 
forehand, so that each member may revolve it 
previously in his mind, is perhaps one of the 
happiest contrivances hitherto discovered for 
shortening the acquisition of knowledge, and 
hastening the evolution of talents. Such an as- 
sociation requires indeed somewhat more of 
regulation than the rules of politeness establish 
in common conversation ; or rather, perhaps, it 
requires that the rules of politeness, which in 
animated conversation are liable to perpetual 
violation, should be rigorously enforced. The 
order of speech established in the club at Tarbol- 
ton, appears to have been more regular than 
was required in so small a society ;t where all 
that is necessary seems to be the fixing on a 
member to whom every speaker shall address 
himself, and who shall in return secure the 
speaker from interruption. Conversation, which 
among men whom intimacy and friendship have 
relieved from reserve and restraint, is liable, 
when left to itself, to so many inequalities, and 
which, as it becomes rapid, so often diverges 
into separate and collateral branches, in which 
it is dissipated and lost, being kept within its 
channel by a simple limitation of this kind, 
which practice renders easy and familiar, flows 
along in one full stream, and becomes smoother, 
and clearer, and deeper, as it flows. It may 
also be observed, that in this way the acquisi- 
tion of knowledge becomes more pleasant and 
more easy, from the gradual improvement of 

*In several lists of book-societies among the 
poorer classes in Scotland which the editor has seen, 
works of this description form a great part. These 
societies are by no means general, and it is not sup- 
posed that they are increasing at present. 

tSee Appendix, No. II., Nole C. 



the faculty employed to convey it. Though 
some attention has been paid to the eloquence 
of the senate and the bar, which in this, as in 
all other free governments, is productive of so 
much influence to the few who excel in it, yet 
little regard has been paid to the humble ex- 
ercise of speech in private conversation ; an art 
that is of consequence to every description of 
persons under every form of government, and 
on which eloquence of every kind ought per- 
haps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocution, 
a distinct utterance, is the offspring of much 
time and of long practice. Children are always 
defective in clear articulation, and so are young 
people, though in a less degree. What is call- 
ed slurring in speech, prevails with some persona 
through life, especially in those who are taci- 
ture. Articulation does not seem to reach its 
utmost degree of distinctness in men before the 
age of twenty, or upwards ; in women it reach- 
es this point somewhat earlier. Female occu- 
pations require much use of speech, because 
they are duties in detail. Besides, their occu- 
pations being generally sedentary, the respira- 
tion is left at liberty. Their nerves being 
more delicate, their sensibility as well as fancy 
is more lively ; the natural consequence of which 
is, a more frequent utterance of thought, a 
greater fluency of speech, and a distinct artic- 
ulation at an earlier age. But in men who 
have not mingled early and familiarly with the 
world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, and 
clear in apprehension, it is often painful to ob- 
serve the difficulty with which their ideas are 
communicated by speech, through the want of 
those habits that connect thoughts, words, and 
sounds together; which, when established, seem 
as if they had arisen spontaneously, but which, 
in truth, are the result of long and painful prac- 
tice ; and when analyzed, exhibit the phenom- 
ena of most curious and complicated associa- 
tion. 

Societies then, such as we have been describ- 
ing, while they may be said to put each mem- 
ber in possession of the knowledge of all the 
rest, improve the powers of utterance ; and by 
the collision of opinion, excite the faculties of 
reason and reflection. To those who wish to 
improve their minds in such intervals of labor 
as the condition of a peasant allows, this me- 
thod of abbreviating instruction may, under 
proper regulations, be highly useful. To the 
student, whose opinions, springing out of soli- 
tary observation and meditation, are seldom in 
the first instance correct, and which have, not- 
withstanding, while confined to himself, an in- 
creasing tendency to assume in his own eye 
the character of demonstrations, an association 
of this kind, where they may be examined as 
they arise, is of the utmost importance; since 
it may prevent those illusions of imagination, 
by which, genius being bewildered, science is 
often debased, and error propagated through 
successive generations. And to men who have 
cultivated letters, or general science, in the 
course of their education, but who are engagea 
in the active occupations of life, and no longer 
able to devote to study or to books the time re- 
quisite for improving or preserving their ac- 
quisitions, associations of this kind, where the 
mind may unbend from its usual cares in dis- 
cussions of literature or science, afford the most 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



181 



pleasing, the most useful, and the most rational 
of graiiticaiions.* 

Whether in the humble societies of which he 
was a member, Burns acquired much direct in- 
formation, may perhaps be questioned. It can- 
not however be doubted, that by collision, the 
faculties of his mind would be excited ; that by 
practice his habits of enunciation would be es- 
tablished ; and thus we have some explanation 
of that early command of words and of expres- 
sion which enabled him to pour forth his thoughts 
in language not unworthy of his genius, and 
which, of all his endowments, seemed, on his 
appearance in Edinburgh, the most extraordi- 
nary. t For associations of a literary nature, 
our poet acquired a considerable relish ; and 
happy had it been for him, after he emerged 
from the condition of a peasant, if fortune had 
permitted him to enjoy them in the degree of 
which he was capable, so as to have fortified 
his principles of virtue by the purification of 
his taste ; and given to the energies of his mind 
habits of exertion that might have excluded other 
associations, in which it must be acknowledg- 
ed they were too often wasted, as well as de- 
based. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but the 
banks of that river, as it bends to the east- 
ward above Mauchline, are singularly beautiful, 
and they were frequented, as may be imagined, 
by our poet, in his solitary walks. Here the 
muse often visited him. In one of these wan- 
derings, he met among the woods a celebrated 
beauty of the west of Scotland : a lady, of whom 
it is said, that the charms of her person corres- 
pond with the character of her mind. This in- 
cident gave rise, as might be expected, to a 
poem, of which an account will be found in the 
following letter, in which he enclosed it to the 
object of his inspiration : 

* When letters and philosophy were cultivated in 
ancient Greece, the press had not multiplied the tab- 
lets of learning and science, and necessity produced 
the habit of studying as it were in common. Poets 
were found reciting theirown verses in public assem- 
blies; in public schools only philosophers delivered 
their speculations. The taste of the iiearers, the in- 
genuity oi'the scholars, weie employed in appreciat- 
ing and f'xaminmg the works of fancy and of spec- 
ulation submitted lo their consideration, and the ir- 
revocable words were not given to the world before 
the composition, as well as the sentiments, were 
again and again retouched and improved. Death 
alone put the last seal on the lal)orsof genius. Hence, 
perhaps, may be in part explained the extraordinary 
art and skill with which the moimments of Grecian 
literature that remains to us, appear to have been 
constructed. 

t It appears that our poet made more preparation 
than might be supposed, for the discussion otthe so- 
ciety of Tarbolton. There were found some detach- 
ed memoranda, ev denily pn pared for tliese meet- 
ings; and, amongst others, the heads of a speech on 
the question mentioned in p. 29, in wliich. as miglit 
be expected, he takes the imprudent sideolthe ques- 
tion. The following may serve as a farther sjieci- 
men of the questions debated in the society at Tar- 
bolton: — H'liether do ice derive more happiness from 
love or friendship? Whether betmeen friends, who 
have no reason to doubt each other's friendship, there 
should be any reserve? Whether is the savage mail, 
or the peasant of a civilized country, in the ?nost happy 
situation? IVIielher is a young man of the lower 
ranks of life likeliest to be happy, who has ffot a good 
education, and his mind 7cell ivforined, or he who has 
just the education and information of those around 
him ? 



To Miss 

Mossgiel, \8th Novemher, 1786. 

" M.vuAM, — Poets, are such outre beings, so 
much the children of way ward fancy and capri- 
cious whim, that I believe the world generally 
allows them a larger latitude in the laws of pro- 
priety, than the sober sons of judgment and pru- 
dence. I mention this as an apology for the lib- 
erties that a nameless stranger has taken with 
you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave 
to present you with. Whether it has poetical 
merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not 
the proper judge; but it is the best my abili- 
ties could produce ; and, what to a good heart 
will perhaps be a superior grace, it is equally 
sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real life, 
though I dare say, Madam, you do not recollect 
it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved 
out as chance directed, in the favorite haunts 
of my muse on the banks of the Ayr, to view 
nature in all the gayety of the vernal year. The 
evening sun was flaming over the distant wes- 
tern hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson open* 
ing blossom, or the verdent spreading leaf — It 
was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I lis- 
tened to the feathered warblers, pouring their 
harmony on every hand, with a congenial kind- 
red regard, and frequently turned out of my path, 
lest I should disturb their little songs, or fright- 
en them to another station. Surely, said I to 
myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, re- 
gardless of your harmonious endeavors to please 
him, can eye your elusive flights, to discover 
your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the 
property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, 
your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary haw- 
thorn twig that shot across the way. what heart 
at such a time but must have been interested in 
its welfare, and wished it preserved from the 
rudely browsing cattle, or the withering eastern 
blast ? Such was the scene — and such the hour, 
when, in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of 
the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that 
ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's 
eye : those visionary bards excepted who hold 
commerce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny 
and Villainy taken my walk, they had at that 
moment sworn eternal peace with such an ob- 
ject. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It 
would have raised plain, dull, historic prose in- 
to metaphor and measure. 

"The enclosed song* was the work of my re- 
turn home ; and perhaps it but poorly answers 
what might have been expected from such a 
scene. 

***** 

" I have the honor to be, Madam, 
Your most obedient, 

and very humble servant, 

" Robert Burns." 

In the manuscript book in which our poet has 
recounted this incident, and into which the let- 
ter and poem are copied, he complains that the 
lady made no reply to his effusions, and this ap- 
pears to have wounded his self-love. It is not 
however diflicult to find an excuse for her silence. 
Burns was at that lime little known ; and where 

* The song entitled the l.ass of Ballochmyle. 



182 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



known at all, noted rather for the wild strength I 
of his humor, than for those strains of tender- 
ness, in which he afterwards so much excelled. 
To the lady herself his name had perhaps never 
been mentioned, and of such a poem she might 
not consider herself a proper judge. Her mod- 
esty might prevent her from perceiving thai the 
muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, 
and that her beauty was awakening strains des- 
tined to immortality, on the bank of the Ayr. 
It may be conceived, also, that supposing the 
verse duly appreciated, delicacy might find it dif- 
ficult to express its acknowledgments. Instead 
of raising himself to the condition of the object 
of his admiration, he presumed to reduce her to 
his own, and to strain this high-born beauty to 
his daring bosom. It is true Burns might have 
found precedents for such freedom among the 
poets of Greece and Rome, and indeed of every 
country. And it is not to be denied, that love- 
ly women have generally submitted to this sort 
of profanation with patience, and even with good 
humor. To what purpose is it to repine at a 
misfortune, which is the necessary consequence 
of their own charms, or to remonstrate with a 
de.scription of men who are incapable of control ? 

" The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are ot imagination all compact."' 

It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful 
nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have 
been, did not reject with scorn the adorations 
of our poet, though she received them with si- 
lent modesty and dignified reserve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and the 
force of his imagination, exposed him in a par- 
ticular manner to the impressions of beauty ; 
and these qualities, united to his impassioned 
eloquence, gave in turn a powerful influence 
over the female heart. The Banks of the Ayr 
formed the scene of youthful passions of a still 
tenderer nature, the history of which it would 
be improper to reveal, were it even in our pow- 
er ; and the traces of which will soon be discov- 
erable only in those strains of nature and sensi- 
bility to which they gave birth. The song en- 
titled Highland M'lnj, is known to relate to one 
of these attachments. '' It was written," says 
our bard, ''on one of the most interesting pas- 
sages of my youthful days." The object of this 
passion died early in life, and the impression 
left on the mind of Burns seems to have been 
deep and lasting. Several years afterwards, 
when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent 
to the sensibility of his recollections, in that 
impassioned poem, which is addressed To Ma- 
ry in Heaven ! 

To the delineations of the poet by himself, by 
his brother, and by his tutor, these additions are 
necessary, in order that the reader may see his 
character in its various aspects, and may have an 
opportunity of forming a just notion of the varie- 
ty, as well as the power of his original genius.* 

♦The history of the poems formerly prmted, will 
be found in the Appendix to this volume. It is inser- 
ted in the words of Gilbert Burns, who. in a letter ad- 
dressed to the Editor, has given the following^account 
of the friends which Robert's talents procured him 
before he left Ayrshire, or attracted the notice of the 
world. 

"The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our coming 
to it, (.Martinmas, 17^3.) was the properly of the Earl 
of Loudon, but was held in tack by Mr. Gavin Ham- 
ilton, writer in Mauchline, from whom we had our 
bargain*, who had thus an opportunity of knowing. 



We have dwelt longer on the early part of his 
life, because it is the leust known ; and because, \ 
as has already been mentioned, lliis part of his i 
history is connected with some views of the con- ; 
dition and manners of the humble-t ranks of so- 
ciety, hitherto little observed, and which will ' 
perhaps be found neither useless nor uninier- \ 
esting. ' 

About the time of his leaving his native coun- ' 
ty, his correspondence commences ; and in ihe 
series of letters now given to the world, the chief 
incidents of the remaining portion of his life will 
be found. This authentic, though melancholy 
record, will ^upersede in future the necessity of 
any extended narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month of 
November, 1786. He was famished with a let- 
ter of introduction to Dr. Blacklock, from the 
gentleman to whom the Doctor had addressed 
the letter which is represenied by our bard as 
the immediate cause ot his visiting the Scottish 
metropolis. He was acquainted with Mr. Stew- 
ert. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the univer- 
sity ; and had been entertained by that gentle- 
man at Catrine, his estate in Ayrshire. He had 
been introduced by Mr. Alexander Dalzel to the 
earl of Glencairn, who had expressed his high 
approbation of his poetical talents. He had 
friends therefore who could introduce him into 
the circles of literature as well as of fashion, and 
his own manners and appearance exceeding ev- 
ery expectation that could have been formed of 
them, he soon became an object of general cu- 
riosity and admiration. The following circum- 
stance contributed to this in a considerable de- 
gree. — At ihe lime when Burns arrived in Ed- 
inburgh, the periodical paj.er, entitled The Loun- 
ger, was publishing, every Saturday producing 
a successive number. His poems had attracted 
the notice of the gentlemen engaged in that under- 
takings and the ninety-5<evenih number of those 
unequal, though frequently beautiful essays, 
is devoted to An Account, of Robert Burns, the 
Ayrshire Plough7na7i, with extracts from his Fo- 
fwis, written by the excellent pen of Mr. Macken- 
zie.* The Lounger had an extensive circulation 
among persons of taste and literature. not in Scot- 
land only, but in various parts of England, to 
whose acquaintance therefore our bard was im- 
mediately introduced. The paper of Mr. Mac- 
kenzie was calculated to introduce him advanta- 
geously. The extracts are well selected; the crit- 
icisms and reflections are judicious as well as 
generous; and in style and sentiments there is 
that happy delicacy, by which the writings of the 
author are so eminently distinguished. The ex- 
tracts from Burns' poems in the ninety-seventh 
number of The Lounger -were copied into the 
London, as well as many of the provincial papers, 
and the fame of our bard spread throughout the is- 
land. Of the manners, character, and conduct of 
Burns at this period, the foUowirg account has 
been given by Mr. Stewart, Professor of Moral 
and showing a sincere regard for my brother, before 
he knew thai he was a poet. The poet's estimation 
of him, and the strong outlines of his character, may 
be collected from the dedication lo this gentleman. 
When the publication was begun, Mr. H. entered very 
warmly into his interests, and promoted the subscrip- 
tion very extensively. Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in 

* This paper has been attributed, but improperly, 
to 1 ord Craig, one of the Scotiish judges, author of 
ilie very interesting account of Michael Bruce, in tha 
3olh number of The Mirror. 



THE LIFE OF B URNS. 



183 



Philosophy in the university of Edinburgh, in a 
letter to the editor, which he is particularly hap- 
py to have obtained permission to insert in these 
memoirs. 

" The first time I saw Robert Burns was on 
the 23rd of October, 1786, when he dined at my 
house in Ayrshire, together with our common 
friend Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon, in Mauch- 
line, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of 
his acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the 
date particularly, by some verses which Burns 
wrote after he returned home, and in which the 
day of our meeting is recorded. — My excellent 
and much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord 
Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same 
day, and by the kindness and frankness of his 
manners, left an impression on the mind of the 
poet which never was effaced. 'I'he verses I al- 
lude to are among the most imperfect of his pie- 
ces ; but a few stanzas may perhaps be an ob- 
ject of curiosity to you, both on account of the 
character to which they relate, and of the light 
which they throw on the situation and feelings 
of ihe writer, before his name was known to the 
public* 

"1 cannot postively say, at this distance of 
Ayr, is a man of worth and taste, of warm affections, 
and connected with a most respectable circle of 
friends and relations. It is to tliis gentlemen The 
Cotter's Saturday JV*/i;/t( is inscribed. The poems of 
my brother which 1 have formerly mentioned, no 
sooner came into his hands, than they were quickly 
known, and wtll received in the extensive circle of 
Mr. Aiken's friends, which gave them a sort of cur- 
rency, ntcessiiry in this wii^e world, even for the good 
reception of things valuable in themselves. But Mr. 
Aiken not alone admired the poet ; as soon as he be- 
came acquainted with him, he showed the warmest 
regard for the man, and did every thing in his pow- 
er to forward his interest and respectability. The 
Epistle to a Youvg Friend was adtlressed to this gen- 
tleman's son, Mr. A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. 
He was the oldest of a young fam ly, who were 
taughi to receive m_v brother with respect, as a man 
of genius, and their father's friend. 

•• The Brigs of ^yr is inscribed to .John Ballentine, 
Esq., banker in Ayr, one of those gentlemen to whom 
my brother was introduced by Mr. Aiken. He inter- 
ested himself very warmly in my brother's concerns, 
and constantly showed the greatt st friendship and at- 
tachment to him. When the Kilmarnock edition was 
all sold off, and a considerable demand pointed out 
the propriety o: publishinga second edition, Mr. Wil- 
son, who had printed the first, was asked if he would 
print the secoml, and take his chance of being paid 
irom the first sale. This he declined, and when this 
came to Mr. Ballentine's knowledge, he generously 
offered to accommodate Robert with what money he 
might need for that purpose ; hut advised him to goto 
Edinburgh, as Ihe fittest place for publishing. When 
he did go to Ediniurgh, his friends advised him topub- 
li.<h a^rain by sub.^cription, .«o that he need not accept 
this offer. Mr. William Parker, merchant in Kilmar- 
nock was subscriber for thirty-five copies ot'ihe Kil- 
marnock edition. This may perhaps appear not de- 
serving of notice here; but if the comparative obscu- 
rity of the poet, at this period, be taken into consid- 
eration, it appears to me a greater effort of generos- ! 
ity, than many things which appear more brilliant in ; 
my I rother's future liistory. I 

'•Mr. Robert .Muir. merchant in Kilmarnock, was ! 
oneofthose triends Robert's poetry had procured him. ) 
and one who was dear to his heart. This gentleman | 
had no very great fortune, or Ions line of d gnified 
ancestry; but what Rolen says of Captain MaUliew 
Henderson, might he said of him with great propriety, 
that he held the patent cf his honors immediately from 
Jilmiirhty God. Nature had indeed marked him a 
gentleman in the most legible characters. He died i 

*See the poem entitled " Lines on an interview I 
with Lord Daer."— Poems, p. 58. I 



time, whether at the period of our first acquain- 
tance, the Kilmarnock edition of his poems had 
been just published, or was yet in press. 1 sus- 
pect that the latter was the case, as 1 have still 
in my possession copies in his own hand writ- 
ing, of some of his favtorite performances ; par- 
ticularly of his verses "on turning up a Mouse 
with his plough ;'' — " on the Mountain Daisy ;" 
and "the Lament." On my return to Edinburgh, 
I showed tiie volume, and mentioned what I 
knew of the author's history to several of my 
friends: and among others, to Mr. Henry Mac- 
kenzie, who first recommended him to public 
notice in the 97ih number of The Lou?iger. 

" At this time Burns' prospects in life were 
so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously 
formed a plan of going out to Jainaica in a very 
humble situation, not however without lament- 
ing that his want of patronage should force him 
to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, 
when his ambition aimed at no higher an object 
than the station of an exciseman or gauger in 
his own country. 

" His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterward, simple, manly and independent ; 
strongly expressive of conscious genius and 
while yet a young man, soon after the publication of 
my brother's first Edinburgli edition. Sir William 
Cunningham ot" Rolterthind. paid a very flattering at- 
tention, and showed a good deal of fr.endship for the 
poet. Before his going to Edinburgh, as well as af- 
ter. Robert seemed peculiarly pleased with Professor 
Stewart's friendship and conversation. 

'But of all the friendships which Robert acquired 
in Ayrshire and elsewhere, none seemed more agree- 
able to him than that of Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop ; nor 
any which has been more uniformly and con.stantly 
exerted in behalfof him and his family, of which, were 
it proper, I could give many instances. Robert was 
on the point of setting out for Edinburgh before Mrs. 
Dunlophad heard of him. About the time of my broth- 
er's publishing in Kilmarnock, she had been afflicted 
with a long and severe illness, vvliicti had reduced 
her mind to the mo.«t distressing state of depression. 
In this situation, a copy of the printed poems was laid 
on her table by a friend: and happening to open on 
The Cotter's Saturday J^ight, she read it over witli 
the greatest pleasure and surprise ; the poet's de- 
scription of the simple cottagers, operating like the 
charm of a powerful exorcist, expelling the demon en- 
nui, and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony 
and satisfacticm. Mrs. Dunlop sent off a person ex- 
press to Mossgiel, distant fifteen or sixteen m les, 
with a very obliging letter to my brother, desiring him 
to send her half a dozen copies of his poems, if he had 
them to spare, and begging he would do her the pleas- 
ure of calling at Dunlop House as soon as convenient. 
This was the beginning of a correspondence which 
endedonly with the poet's life. The lust use he made 
of his pen was writing a short letter to this lady a 
few days before h s death. 

" Colonel Fullarton, who afterwards paid a very 
particular attention to the poet, was not in the coun- 
try at the time of liis first commencing author. At 
tliis di.stance of time, and in the hurry of a wet day, 
snatched from laborious occupations, I may have for- 
got some persons who ought to have been mentioned 
on this occasion ; for which, if it come to my knowl- 
edge, I shall be heartily sorry" 

The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop was of particular 

value to Burns. This lady, daughter and sole heiress 
to Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, and lineal descen- 
dant of the illustrious Wallace, the first of Scottish 
wiirriors, possesses the qualities of wiind .suited to her 
high lineage Preserving, in the decline of life, the 
generous affections of youth ; her admiration of the 
poet was soon accompanied by a sincere friendship 
for the man; which pursued him in after-life through 
good and evil report; in poverty, in sickness, and in 
sorrow ; and which is continued to his infant family, 
now deprived of their parent. 



184 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



worth ; but without anything that indicated 
forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his 
share in conversation, but not more than belong- 
ed to him ; and listened with apparent attention 
and deference on subjects where his want of ed- 
ucation deprived him of \i\e means of informa- 
tion. If there had been little more gentleness 
and accommodation in his temper, he would, I 
think, have been still more interesting; but he 
had been accustomed to give law in the circle 
of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his dread of 
anything approaching meaness or servility, ren- 
dered his manner somewhat decided and hard. 
Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable among 
his various attainments, than the fluency, and 
precision, and originality of his language, when 
he spoke in company ; more particularly as he 
aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and 
avoided more successfully than most Scotchmen 
the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. 

" He came to Edinburgh early in the winter 
following, and remained there for several months. 
By whose advice he took this step, I am unable 
to say. Perhaps it was suggested only by his 
own curiosity to see a little more of the world ; 
but, I confess, I dreaded the consequences from 
the first, and always wished that his pursuits 
and habits should continue the same as in the 
former part of life ; with the addition of, what 
I considered as then completely within his reach, 
a good farm on moderate terms, in a part of the 
country agreeable to his taste. 

"The attentions he received during his stay 
in town, from all ranks and descriptions of per- 
sons, were such as would have turned any head 
but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive 
any unfavorable effect which they left on his 
mind. He retained the same simplicity of man- 
ners and appearance which had struck me so 
forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; 
nor did he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
portance from the number and rank of his new 
acquaintance. His dress was perfectly suited 
to his station, plain, and unpretending, with a 
sufficient attention to neatness. If I recollect 
right, he always wore boots ; and, when on 
more than usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches. 

"The variety of his engagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so 
often as I could have wished. In the course of 
the spring he called on me once or twice, at my 
request, early in the morning, and walked wiih 
me to Braid- Hills, in the neighborhood of the 
town, when he charmed me still more by his 
private conversation, than he had ever done in 
company. He was passionately fond of the 
beauties of nature ; and I recollect once he told 
me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in 
one of our morning walks, that the sight of so 
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his 
mind, which none could understand who had 
not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and 
the worth which they contained. 

" In his political principles he was then a 
Jacobite ; which was perhaps owing partly to 
this, that his father was originally from the 
estate of Lord Mareschall. Indeed he did not 
appear to have thought much on such subjects, 
nor very consistently. He had a very strong 
«ense of religion, and expressed deep regret at 
'he levity with which he had heard it treated 
fccasionally in some convivial meetings which 
^e frequented. I speak of him as he was in 



the winter of 1786-7 ; for afterwards we met 

but seldom, and our conversations turned chiefly ; 

on his literary projects, or his private aflairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or not, ; 
from any of your letters to me, that you had : 
ever seen Burns.* If you have, it is superflu- 
ous for me to add, that the idea which his con- 
versation conveyed of the powers of his mind, 
exceeded, if possible, that which is suggested 
by his writings. Among the poets whom I 
have happened to know, 1 have been struck in 
more than one instance, with the unaccountable 
disparity between their general talents, and the 
occasional inspirations of iheir more favorable 
moments. But all the faculties of Burns' mind 
were, as far I could judge, equally vigorous; 
and his predilection for poetry was rather the 
result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned 
temper, than of a genius exclusively adapted to 
that species of composition. From his con- 
versation, I should have pronounced him to be 
fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he 
had chosen to exert his abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which he was ac- 
customed to dwell, the characters of the indi- 
viduals with whom he happened to meet, was 
plainly a favorite one. I'he remarks he made 
on thetn were always shrewd and pointed, though 
frequently inclining too much to sarcasm. His 
praise of those he loved was sometimes indis- 
criminate and extravagant ; but this, I suspect, 
proceeded rather from the caprice and humor 
of the moment, than from the effects of attach- 
ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was 
ready, and always impressed with the marks of 
a vigorous understanding ; but to my taste, not 
often pleasing or happy. His attempts at epi- 
gram, in his printed works, are the only per- 
formances, perhaps, that he has produced, total- 
ly unworthy of his genius. 

" In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in 
Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I think 
that he made a pretty long excursion that season 
to the Highlands, and that he also visited what 
Beattie calls the Arcadian ground of Scotland, 
upon the banks of the Tiviot and the Tweed. 

'• I should have mentioned before, that not- 
withstanding various reports I heard during the 
preceding winter, of Burns' predilection for 
convivial, and not very select society, I should 
have concluded in favor of his habits of sobrie- 
ty, from all of him that ever fell under my own 
observation. He told me indeed himself, that 
the weakness of his stomach was such as to de- 
prive him entirely of any merit in his temper- 
ance. 1 was however somewhat alarmed about 
the effect of his now comparatively sedentary 
and luxurious life, when he confessed to me, 
the first night he spent in my house after his 
winter's campaign in town, that he had been 
much disturbed when in bed, by a palpitation 
of his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to 
which he had of late become subject. 

" In the course of the same season I was led 
by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Ma- 
son- Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. 
He had occasion to make some short unpre- 
meditated compliments to different individuals 
from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, 
and every thing he said was happily conceived, 
and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If 
I am not mistaken, he told me that in that vil- 
* The Editor has seen and conversed with Burns. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



185 



lage. before going: to Edinburgh, he had belong- 
ed lo a small c\uh of such of the iiihai.itanis as 
had a taste for books, when they used to con- 
verse and debate on any inleresiing questions 
that occurred to them in the course of their 
reading. IIis manner of speaking in pubhc had 
evidenily the marks of some practice in ex- 
tempore elocution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what I have 
always considered as characteristical in a high 
degree of true genius, the extreme facility and 
good-nature of his taste in judging of tlie coin- 
positions of others, where there was any real 
ground for praise. I repeated to him many pas- 
sages of English poetry with which lie was un- 
acquainted, and have more than once witnessed 
the tears of admiration and rapture with which 
he heard them. 'l"he collection of songs by 
Dr. Aikin, which I first put into his hands, he 
read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding his 
former efforts in that very difficult species of 
writing ; and I have little doubt that it had some 
efi'ect in polishing his subsequent compositions. 

'* In judging of prose, I do not think his taste 
was equally sound. I once read to him a pas- 
sage or two in Franklin's Works, which I 
thought very happily executed, upon the model 
of Addison : but he did not appear to relish, or 
to perceive the beauty which they derived from 
their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them 
with indifference, when compared with the 
point, and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. 
The influence of this taste is very perceptible 
in his own prose compositions, although their 
great and various excellences render some of 
tliern scarcely less objects of wonder than his 
poetical performances. I'he late Dr. Robertson 
used to say, that considering his education, the 
former seemed to him the more extraordinary 
of the two. 

"His memory was uncommonly retentive, at 
least ior poetry, of which he recited to me fre- 
quently long compositions with the most minute 
accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and other 
pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part of 
them (he told me) he had learned in his child- 
hood from his mother, who delighted in such 
recitations, and who.<^e poetical taste, rude as 
it probably was. gave, it is presumable, the 
first direction to her son's genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which accident- 
ally fell into his hands in his early years, he 
mentioned particularly the recommendatory po- 
ems, by diliereiit authors, prefixed to Hervey's 
Meditations ; a book which has always had a 
very wide circulation among such of the coun- 
try people of Scotland, as affect to unite some 
decree of taste with their religious studies. And 
these poems (although they are certainly below 
mediocrity) he continued to read with a degree 
of rapture beyond expression. He took notice 
of this fact himself, as a proof how much the 
taste is liable to be influenced by accidental cir- 
cumstances. 

" His faiher appeared to me, from the account 
he gave of him, to have been a respecfal)le and 
worthy character, possessed of a mind superior 
to what might have been expected from his sta- 
tion ill life. He ascribed much of his own prin- 
ciples and feelings to the early impressions he 
had received iVom his instruction and example. 
I recollect that he once applied to him (and he 
added, that the passage was a literal statement 



of fact) the two last lines of the following pas- 
sage in the Minslnl : the wh(j|e of which he 
repeated with great enthusiasm : 

Sliall I b(; iHlt fi)rgotteii in the diisf. 

When fate, reentins, I'ts the tlnwer revive ? 
Sliall nature's voice, lo ni^n alone lInjll^t, 

liid liiin. tliongh dooin'd to perish, iiope to live ^ 
Is it for this f;iir virtue oft must strive 

VViti) disappoinuiienl. penury, and pain 1 
No ; i leaven's immortal sprini? sliiiU yet arrive ; 

And man's rnaJL-slic beauty bloom acain. [reign. 
Bright ihro' tlie eternal year of love's Ir.uruphant 

This truth sublime, his simple sire had tduirht : 
la sooth, 'tivas aimustull the shepherd knew. 

" With respect to Burns' early education, 1 
cannot say any thing wiili certainty. He always 
spoke with respect and gratitude of the school- 
master who had taught him to read English ; 
and who, finding in his scholar a more than 
ordinary ardor for knowledge, had been at pains 
to instruct him in the graminaiical principles 
of the language. He began the study of Latin, 
and dropt it before he had finished the verbs. 
I have sometimes heard him quote a lew Latin 
words, such as omnia vincit unior, &i,c., but 
they seemed to be such as he had caught from 
conversation, and which he repeated by rote. 
I think he had a project, after he came to Ed- 
inburgh, of prosecurmg the study under his in- 
timate friend, the late Mr. Nicol, one of the 
masters of the grammar-school here ; but I do 
not know that he ever proceeded so far as to 
make the attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French; and, if he had an afTeciation in any 
thing, it was in introducing occasionally a word 
or phrase from that language. It is possible 
that his knowledge in this respect might be more 
extensive than 1 supposed it to be ; but this you 
can learn from his more intimate acquaintance. 
It would be worth while to inquire, whether 
he was able to read the French authors with 
such facility as to receive from them any im- 
provement to his taste. For my own part, I 
doubt it tnuch ; nor would I believe it, but on 
very strong and pointed evidence. 

" If my memory does not fail me, he was 
well instructed in arithmetic, and knew some- 
thing of practical geometry, particularly of sur- 
veying. — .-\11 his other attainments were entire- 
ly his own. 

" The last time I saw him was during the 
winter, 1788-89,* when he passed an evening 
with me at Drumseugh, in the neigliborhood 
of Edinburgh, where I was then living. My 
friend, Mr. Alison, was the only other person 
in company. I never saw him more agreeable 
or interesting. A present which Mr. Alison 
sent him afterwards of his Essays on Taste, 
drew from Burns a letter of acknowledgment 
which I remember to have read with some de- 
gree of surprise at the distinct conception he 
appeared from it to have formed of the general 
principles of the doctrine of association. When 
I saw Mr. Alison in Shropshire last autumn, I 
forgot to inquire if the letter be still in existence. 
If it is. you may easily procure it, by means 
of our friend, Mr. Houlbrooke."t 



* Or rather 17F9-90. I cannot speak with confidence 
with ri'spect to ihe particular jear. Some of my 
oilier dates may possibly require correction, as I 
keep no journal oi'such occurrences. 

This letter is Xo. CXIV. 



186 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



The scene that opened on our bard in Edin- 
burgh was altogether new, and in a variety of 
other respects highly interesting, especially to 
one of his disposition of mind. To use an ex- 
pression of his own, he found himself, "sud- 
denly translated from the veriest shades of life," 
into the presence, and, indeed, into the society 
of a number of persons, previously known to 
him by report as of the highest distinction in 
his country, and whose characters it was nat- 
ural for him to examine with no common curi- 
osity. 

From the men of letters, in general, his re- 
ception was particularly flattering. The late 
Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gregory, Mr. 
Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and Mr. Frazer Tyt- 
ler, may be mentioned in the list of those who 
perceived his uncommon talents, who acknowl- 
edged more especially his powers in conver.sa- 
tion, and who interested themselves in the cul- 
tivation of his genius. In Edinburgh, literary 
and fashionable society are a good deal mixed. 
Our bard was an acceptable guest in the gayest 
and most elevated circles, and frequently re- 
ceived from female beauty and elegance, those 
attentions above all others most grateful to him. 
At the table ol Lord Monboddo he was a fre- 
quent guest ; and while he enjoyed the society, 
and partook of the hospitalities of the venera- 
ble judge, he experienced the kindness and con- 
descension of his lovely and accomplished daugh- 
ter. The singular beauty of this young lady 
was illuminated by that happy expression of 
countenance which results from the union of 
cultivated taste and superior understanding, with 
the finest affections of the mind. The influence 
of such attractions was not unfelt by our poet. 
*' There has not been any thing like Miss 
Burnet, (said he in a letter to a friend,) in all 
the combination of beauty, grace, and goodness 
the Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve, on 
the first day of her existence." In his Address 
to Edinhurgh, she is celebrated in a strain of 
still greater elevation : 

"Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heaven's l)eanties on my fancy sliine, 
I St e llie Sire of Love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine I" 

This lovely woman died a few years after- 
wards in the flower of youth. Our bard ex- 
pressed his sensibility on that occasion, in vers- 
es addressed to her memory. 

Among the men of rank and fashion, Burns 
was particularly distinguished by James, Earl 
of Glencairn. On the motion of this nobleman, 
the Caledonian Runt, an association of the no- 
bility and gentry of Scotland, extended their 
patronage to our bard, and admitted him to their 
gay orgies. He repaid their notice by a de- 
dication of the enlarged and improved edition 
of his poems, in which he has celebrated their 
patriotism and independence in very animated 
terms. 

"I congratulate my country that the blood 
of her ancient heroes runs uncontaminated ; and 
that, from your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty. * * * * May corruption shrink at your 
kindling, indignant glance ; and may tyrantiy in 
the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, 
equally find in you an inexorable foe !"* 

* See Dedication prefixed to the poems. 



It is to be presumed that these generous sen- 
timents, uttered at an era singularly propitious 
to independence of character and conduct, were 
favorably received by the persons to whom they . 
were addressed, and that they were echoed from 
every bosom, as well as from that of the Earl 
of Glencairn. This accomplished nobleman, a 
scholar, a man of taste and sensibility, died soon 
afierwards. Had he lived, and had his power 
equalled his wishes, Scotland might still have 
exulted in the genius, instead of lamenting the 
early fate of her favorite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined 
with habits of temperance and regularity ; and 
Edinburgh, at the period of which we speak, 
contained perhaps an uncommon proportion of 
men of considerable talents, devoted to social 
excesses, in which their talents were wasted 
and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this de- 
scription, with the usual vehemence of his char- 
acter. His generous afTections, his ardent elo- 
quence, his brilliant and daring imagination, 
fitted him to be the idol of such associations ; 
and accustoming himself to conversation of un- 
limited range, and to festive indulgences that 
scorned restraint, he gradually lost some por- 
tion of his relish for the more pure, but less 
poignant pleasures, to be found in the circles 
of taste, elegance, and literature. The sudden 
alteration in his habits of life operated on him 
physically as well as morally. The humble 
fare of an Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged 
for the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and 
the effects of this change on his ardent constitu- 
tion could not be inconsiderable. But what- 
ever influence might be produced on his con- 
duct, his excellent understanding suffered no 
corresponding debasement. He estimated his 
friends and associates of every description at 
their proper value, and appreciated his own con- 
duct with a precision that might give scope to 
much curious and inelancholy reflection. He 
saw his danger, and at times formed resolutions 
to guard against it ; but he had embarked on 
the tide of dissipation, and was borne along its 
stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an au- 
thentic, though imperfect document remains, in 
a book which he procured in the spring of 1737, 
for the purpose, as he himself informs us, of re- 
cording in it whatever seemed worthy of ob- 
servation. The following extracts may serve as 
a specimen : 

Edinhurcrh, Aprils. 1787. 

" As I have seen a good deal of human life in 
Edinburgh, a great many characters which are 
new to one bred up in the shades of life as I have 
been, I am determined to take down my remarks 
on the spot. Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. 
Palgrave, that ' half a word fixed upon, or near 
the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' 
I don't know how it is with the world in general, 
but with me, making my remarks is by no 
means a solitary pleasure. I want some one to 
latigh with me, some one to be grave with me, 
some one to please me. and help my discrimina. 
lion, with his or her own remark, and at times, 
no doubt, to admire my acuteness and penetra- 
tion. The world are so busied with selfish pur- 
suits, ambition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, 
that very few think it worth while to make any 
observation on what passes around them, except 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



187 



where that observation is a sucker, or branch of 
the darling plant they are rearmg in their fancy. 
r»ior am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimen- 
tal flights of novel-writers, and the sage philos- 
ophy of moralists, whether we are capable of so 
intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as 
that one man may pour out his bosom, his ev- 
ery thought and floating fancy, his very inmost 
soul, with unreserved confidence to another, 
without the hazard of losing part of that respect 
which man deserves from man, or, from the 
unavoidable imperfections attending human na- 
ture, of one day repenting his confidence. 

" For these reasons I am determined to make 
these pages my confidant. I will sketch every 
character that any way strikes me, to the best 
of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will 
insert anecdotes, and take down remarks in the 
old law phrase, without feud or favor. — Where 
I hit on any thing clever, my own applause will, 
in some measure, feast my vanity ; and begging 
Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock 
and key a security, at least equal to the bosom 
of any friend whatever. 

" My own private story likewise, niy love ad- 
ventures, my rambles ; the frowns and smiles of 
fortune on my hardship ; my poems and frag- 
ments, that must never see the light, shall occa- 
sionally be inserted. — In short, never did four 
shillings purchase so much friendship, since con- 
fidence went first to market, or honesty was set 
up to .sale, 

" To these seemingly invidious, but too just 
ideas of human friendship, I would cheerfully 
make one exception — the connection between 
two persons of different sexes, when their inter- 
ests are united and absorbed by the tie of love — 

When thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, 
And each warm wish spmigs mutual from the heart. 

There confidence, confidence that exalts them 
the more in one another's opinion, that endears 
them the more to each other's heart, unreserv- 
edly " reigns and revels." But this is not my 
lot ; and, in my situation, if I am wise, (which, 
by the by, I have no great chance of being,) my 
fate should be cast with the Psalmist's sparrow, 
" to watch alone on the house-tops." — Oh I the 
pity! 

:)f if if if *: If if 

" There are few of the sore evils under the 
sun give me more uneasiness and chagrin than 
the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of 
avowed worth, is received every where, with the 
reception which a mere ordinary character, dec- 
orated with the trappings and futile distinctions 
of fortune meets. 1 imagine a man of abilities, 
his breast glowing with honest pride, conscious 
that men are born equal, still gwmg honor to 
whom honor is due ; he meets at a great man's 
table, a Squire something, or a Sir somebody ; 
he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the 
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wish- 
es, beyond, perhaps, any one at table ; yet how 
it would mortify him to see a fellow, whose abil- 
ities would scarcely have made an eight-penny 
tailor, and whose heart is not worth three far- 
things, meet with attention and notice, that are 
withheld from the son of genius and poverty ? 

" The noble Glencairn has wounded me to 
the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, 
and love him. He showed so much attention, 
engrossing attention one day, to the only block- 



head at table (the whole company consisted of 
{lis lordship, dunderpate, and myself,) that I was 
within half a point of throwing down my gage 
of contemptuous defiance; but he shook my hand 
and looked so benevolently good at parting. God 
bless him ! though I shouldnever see him more, 
I shall love him until my dying day ! 1 am 
pleased to think I am so capable of the throes 
of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some 
other virtues. 

" With Dr. Blair T am more at my ease. I 
never respect him with humble veneration ; but 
when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, 
or still more, when he descends from his pinna- 
cle, and meets me on equal ground in conver- 
sation, my heart overflows with what is called 
liking. When he neglects me tor the mere car- 
cass of greatness, or when his eye measures the 
difference of our points of elevation, I say to my- 
self, with scarcely any emotion, what do I care 
for him or his pomp either ?'' 



The intentions of the poet in procuring this 
book, so fully described by himself, were very 
imperfectly executed. He has inserted few or 
no mcidents, but several observations and re- 
flections, of vvhich the greater part that are pro- 
per for the public eye, will be found interwoven 
in his letters. The most curious particulars in 
the book are the delienations of the characters 
he met with. These are not numerous ; but 
they are chiefly of persons of distinction in the 
republic of letters, and nothing but the delicacy 
and respect due to living characters prevents us 
from committing them to the press. Though it 
appears that in his conversation he was some- 
times disposed to sarcastic remarks on the men 
with whom he lived, nothing of this kind is dis- 
coverable in these more deliberate efforts of his 
understanding, which, while they exhibit great 
clearness of discrimination, manifest also the 
wish, as well as power, to bestow high and gen- 
erous praise. 

As a specimen of these delineations, we give, 
in this edition, the character of Dr. Blair, who 
has now paid the debt of nature, in the full con- 
fidence that this freedom will not be found in- 
consistent with the respect and veneration due 
to that excellent man, the last star in the litera- 
ry constellation, by which the metropolis of Scot- 
land wa'!, in the earlier part of the present reign, 
so beautifully illuminated. 

" It is not easy forming an exact judgment of 
any one ; but in my opinion. Dr. Blair is mere- 
ly an astonishing proof of what industry and ap- 
plication can do. Natural parts like his are fre- 
quently to be met with ; his vanity is proverbi- 
ally known among his acquaintance ; but he is 
justly at the head of what maybe called fine 
writing; and a critic of the first, the very first 
rank in prose ; even in poetry, a bard of Nature's 
making can only take the pas of him. He has a 
heart, not of the finest water, but far from being 
an ordinary one. In short, he is truly a worthy, 
and most respectable character." 



By the new edition of his poems. Burns ac- 
quired a sum of money that enabled him not on- 
ly to partake of the pleasures of Edinburgh, but 
to gratify a desire he had long entertained, of 



188 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



visiting those parts of his native country, most, 
attractive by their beauty or their grandeur ; a 
desire which the return of summer naturally re- 
eved. The scenery on the banks of Tweed, 
and of its tributary streams, strongly interested 
his fancy ; and accordingly he left Edinburgh' 
on the 6th of xMay, 1787, on a tour through a 
country so much celebrated in the rural songs 
of Scotland. He traveled on horseback, and 
was accompanied, during some part of his jour- 
ney, by Mr. Ainslie, now writer to the signet, a 
gentleman who enjoyed much of his friendship 
and of his confidence. • Of this tour a journal 
remains, which however contains only occasion- 
al remarks on the scenery, and which is chiefly 
occupied with an account of the author's difierent 
stages, and with his observations on the various 
characters to whom he was introduced. In the 
course of this tour he visited Mr. Ainslie of Ber- 
rywell, the father of his companion ; Mr. Bry- 
done, the celebrated traveler, to whom he car- 
ried a letter of introduction from Mr. Macken- 
zie ; the Rev. Dr. Sommerville of Jedburgh, 
the historian : Mr. and Mrs. Scott of VVauchope ; 
Dr. Elliot, a physician, retired to a romantic spot 
oil the banks of the Roole ; Sir Alexander Don; 
Sir James Hall, of Dunglass ; atid a great varie- 
ty of other respectable characters. Every where 
the fame of the poet had spread before him, and 
every where he received the most hospitable and 
flattering attentions. At Jedburgh he continued 
several days, and was honored by the magistrates 
with the freedom of their borough. The follow- 
ing may serve as a specimen of this tour, which 
the perpetual reference to living characters pre- 
vents our giving at large. 

"'Saturday, May 6th. Left Edinburgh. Lam- 
mer-muir-hills, miserably dreary in general, but 
at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. 
Reach Berrywell * * * The family-meeting 
with my compagnon de voyage, very charming; 
particularly the sister. * * 

''Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard 
Dr. Bowmaker. * * * 

"Monday. Coldstream — glorious river 
Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge — dine 
at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Fore- 
man. Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute about 
Voltaire. Drink tea at Lenel-House with Mr. 
and Mrs. Brydone. * * * Reception extreme- 
ly flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming 
situation of the town — fine bridge over the 
Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on 
both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch 
side. * * Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine situa- 
tion of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly- 
bush growing where James IL was accidental- 
ly killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small 
old religious ruin, and a fine old garden planted 
by the religious, rooted out and destroyed by a 
Hottentot, a maitre d'hotel of the Duke's — cli- 
mate and soil of Berwickshire and even Rox- 
burgshire. superior to Ayrshire — bad roads — 
turnip and sheep husbandry, their great im- 
provements. * * * Low markets, consequently 
low lands — magnificence of farmers and farm- 
houses. Come up the Tiviot, and up the Jed 
\o Jedburgh to lie, and so wish myself good- 
night. 

'-' Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. 
* * * Charming romantic situation of Jedburgh, 



with gardens and orchards, intermingled among 
the houses and the ruins of a once magnificent 
cathedral. All the towns here have the appear- 
ance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. 
— Jed, a fine romantic little river. Dined with 
Capt. Rutherford, * * * return to Jedburgh. 
Walk up the Jed with some ladies to be shown 
Love-lane, and Blackburn, two fairy-scenes. 
Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to Mr. 
Sommerville, the clergyman of the parish, a 
man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to 
punning. 

***** 

''Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by 
the magistrates with the freedom of the town. 

" Took farewell of Jedburgh with some mel- 
ancholy sensations. 

" Monday, May \ith, Kelso. Dine with the 
farmer's club — all gentlemen talking of high 
matters — each of them keeps a hunter from 30Z. 
to 50Z. value, and attends the fox-hunting club 
in the country. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of 
the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. 
In his mind and manners, Mr. Ker is astonish- 
ingly like my dear old friend, Robert Muir — 
every thing in his house elegant. He offers to 
accompany me in my English tour. 

** Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don: 
a very wet day. * * * Sleep at Mr. Ker's 
again, and set out next day for Melross — visit 
Dryburgh. a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. 
Cross the Leader, and come up the Tweed to 
Melross. Dine there, and visit that far-famed 
glorious ruin. — Come to Selkirk up the banks 
of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." 



Having spent three weeks in exploring this 
interesting scenery. Burns crossed over into 
Northumberland. Mr. Ker, and Mr. Hood, 
two gentlemen with whom he had become ac- 
quainted in the course of his tour, accompanied 
him. He visited Alnwick-Castle, the princely 
seat of the Duke of Northumberland ; the her- 
mitage and old castle of Warksworih ; Morpeth, 
and Newcastle. — In this last town he spent two 
days, and then proceeded to the south-west by 
Hexham and Wardrue, to Carlisle. — After 
spending a day at Carlisle with his friend, Mr. 
Mitchell, he returned into Scotland, and at 
Annan his journal terminates abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he became 
acquainted in the course of this journey, he has, 
in general, given some account ; and almost al- 
ways a favorable one. That on the banks of 
the Tweed and of the Tiviot, our bard should 
find nymphs that were beautiful, is what might 
be confidently presumed. Two of these are 
particularly described in his journal. But it 
does not appear that the scenery, or its inhabit- 
ants, produced any effort of his muse, as was 
to have been wished and expected. From 
Annan, Burns proceeded to Dumfries, and 
thence through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, near 
Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he arrived about 
the 8th of June, 1787. after a long absence of 
six busy and eventful months. It will easily 
be conceived with what pleasure and pride he 
was received by his mother, his brothers, and 
sisters. He had left them poor, and compar- 
atively friendless : he returned to them high in 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



189 



I 



public estimation, and easy in his circumstances. 
He returned to them unclianged in his ardent 
affections, and ready to share wiih them to the 
uttermost farthing, the pittance that I'ortune had 
bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he 

f»roceedea again to Edinburgh, and imniediate- 
y set out on a journey to the Highlands. Of 
this tour no particulars have been found among 
his manuscripts. A letter to his friend, Mr. 
Ainslie, dated Arrachas, near Crochairbas, by 
Lochleary, June 28, 17S7, commences as fol- 
lows : 

"I write you this on my tour through a coun- 
try where savage streams tumble over savage 
mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, 
which starvingly support as savage inhabitants. 
My last stage was Inverary — to-morrow night's 
stage, Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have an- 
swered your kind letter, but you know I am a 
man of many sins." 

Part of a letter from our bard to a friend, 
i^iving some account of his journey, has been 
communicated to the Editor since the publi- 
cation of the last edition. The reader will be 
amused with the following extract. 

" On our return, at a Highland gentleman's 
hospitable mansion, we fell in with a merry 
party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three 
in the morning. Our dancing was none of the 
French or English insipid formal movements ; 
the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at in- 
tervals ; then we flew at Bah at the Browster, 
Tullorhgorum, Loch Erroch Side,* &c., like 
midges sporting in the mottie sun, or craws prog- 
nosticating a storm in a hairst day. — When the 
dear lasses left us we ranged round the bowl 
till the good-fellow hour of six : except a few 
minutes that we went out to pay our devotions 
to the glorious lamp of day peering over the 
towering top of Benlomond. We all kneeled ; 
our worthy landlord's son held the bowl ; each 
man a full glass in his hand ; and I, as priest, 
repeated some rhyming nonsense, like Thom- 
as a-Rhymer's prophecies, I suppose. — After a 
small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we 
proceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, 
and reached Dumbarton in the evening. We 
dined at another good-fellow's house, and con- 
sequently pushed the bottle ; when we went 
out to mount our horses we found ourselves 
'* No vera fou, but gaylie yet." My two friends 
and I rode soberly down the Loch-side, till by 
came a Highlandman at the gallop, on a toler- 
ably good horse, but which had never known 
the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned 
to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off 
we started, whip and spur. My companions, 
though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly 
astern ; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one 
of the Rosinanle family, she strained past the 
Highlandman in spite of all his efforts, with 
the hair-halter : just as I was passing him Don- 
ald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me 
to mar my progress, when down came his horse, 
and threw his rider's breekless a — e in a dipt 
hedge; and down caine Jenny Geddes over all, 
and my hardship between her and the High- 
landman's horse. Jenny Geddes trode over me 
Vi^ithsuch cautious reverence, that matters were 
not so bad as might well have been expected ; 
BO I came off with a few cuts and bruises, and 
*Sc Uch tunes. 



a thorough resolution to be a pattern of sobriety 
for the future. 

" I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to 
the serious business of lite. 1 am. just as usual, 
a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle 
fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a 
farm soon. I was going to say, a wife too : but 
that must never be my blessed lot. I am but 
a younger son of the house of Parnassus, and 
like other younger sons of great families, I may 
intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, but must 
not marry. 

" I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, 
the principal one indeed, of my former happi- 
ness ; that eternal propensity 1 always had to 
fall in love. My heart no more glows with 
feverish rapture. I have no paradisical evening 
interviews stolen from the restless cares and 
prying inhabitants of this weary world. I have 
only * * *. This last is one of your distant ac- 
quaintances, has a fine ligure, and elegant man- 
ners ; and in the train of some great folks whom 
you know, has seen the politest quarters in Eu- 
rope. I do like her a good deal ; but what 
piques me is her conduct at the commencement 
of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her 

when I was in , and after passing regularly 

the intermediate degrees between the distant 
formal bow and the familiar grasp round the 
waist, T ventured in my careless way to talk 
of friendship in rather ambiguous terms ; and 

after her return to , 1 wrote to her in the 

same style. Miss, construing my words farther 
I suppose than even 1 intended, flew off in a 
tangent of female dignity and reserve, like a 
mountain-lark in an April morning : and wrote 
me an answer which measured me out very 
completely what an immense way I had to trav- 
el before I could reach the climate of her favor. 
But I am an old hawk at the sport ; and wrote 
her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as 
brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pop 
down at my foot like corporal Trim's hat. 

" As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, 
and all my wise sayings, why my mare was 
called Jenny Geddes; they shall be recorded 
in a few weeks hence, at Linlithgow, in the 
chronicles of your memory, by 

Robert Bukns." 



From this journey Burns returned to his 
friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the 
month of July, renewing his friendships, and 
extending his acquaintance throughout the coun- 
try, where he was novv very generally knovvii 
and admired. In August he again visited Ed- 
inburgh, whence he undertook another jour- 
ney, towards the i \iddle of this month, in com- 
pany with Mr. M. Adair, now Dr. Adair, of 
Harrowgate, of which this gentleman has favor- 
ed us with the following account. 

" Burns and I left Edinburgh together in 
August, 1787. We rode by Linlithgow and 
Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron-works 
at Carron, with which the poet was forcibly 
struck. The resemblance between that place, 
and its inhabitants, to the cave of Cyclops, 
which must have occurred to every classical 
reader, presented itself to Burns. At Stirling 
the prospects from the castle strongly interested 
him; in a former visit to which, his national 
feelings had been powerfully excited by the 



190 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



ruinous and roofless state of the hall in which 
the Scottish parliaments had been held. His 
indignation had vented itself in some impru- 
dent, but not unpoetical lines, which had given 
much offence, and which he took this oppor- 
tunity of erasing, by breaking the pane of the 
window at die inn on which they were written. 

"At Stirling we met with a company of 
travelers from Edinburgh, among whom was a 
character in many respects congenial with that 
of Burns. This was Nicol. one of the teachers 
of the High Grammar-School at Edinburgh — 
the same wit and power of conversation ; the 
same fondness for convivial society, and thought- 
lessness of to-morrow, characterized both. Jaco- 
buical principles in politics were common to 
both of them ; and these have been suspected, 
since the revolution of France, to have given 
place in eacli, to opinions apparently opposite. 
1 regret that I iiave preserved no memorabilia 
of their conversation, either on this or on other 
occasions, when I happened to meet them to- 
gether. Many songs were sung, which I men- 
tion for the sake of observing, that when Burns 
was called on in his turn, he was accustomed, in- 
stead of singing, to recite one or other of his 
own shorter poems, with a tone and emphasis, 
which, though not correct or harmonious, were 
impressive and pathetic. This he did on the 
present occasion. 

"From Stirling we went next morning 
through the romantic and fertile vale of Devon 
to Harvieston in Clackmannanshire, then in- 
habited by Mrs. Hamilton, with the younger 
part of whose family Burns had been previously 
acquainted. He introduced me to the family, 
and there was formed my first acquaintance 
wiih Mrs. Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom 
I have been married for nine years. Thus was 
I indebted to Burns for a connection from which 
I have derived, and expect further to derive 
much happmess. 

" During a residence of about ten days at 
Harvieston, we made excursions to visit vari- 
ous parts of the surrounding scenery, inferior to 
none in Scotland, in beauty, sublimity, and ro- 
mantic interest ; particularly Casile Campbell, 
the ancient seat ot the family of Argyle ; and 
the famous Cataract of the Devon, called the 
Caldron Linn ; and the RumJding Bridge, a 
singel broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if tra- 
dition is to be believed, across the river, at 
about the height of a hundred feet above its bed. 
I am surprised that none of these scenes should 
have called torth an exertion of Burns' muse. 
But I doubt if he had much taste for the pic- 
turesque. T well remember, that the ladies at 
Harvieston. who accompanied us on this jaunt, 
expressed their disappointment at his not ex- 
pressing in more glowing and fervid language, 
his impressions of the Caldron Linn scene, cer- 
tainly liighly sublime, and somewhat horrible. 

"A visit to Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, a 
lady above ninety, the lineal descendant of that 
race wiiich gave the Scoitish throne us bright- 
est ornament, interested his feelings more pow- 
erfully. 'I'his venerable dame, wnh character- 
istical dignity, informed me, on my observing 
that I believed she was descendi^d from the fam- 
ily of Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce was 
sprung from her family. Though almost de- 
prived of speech by a paralytic alfection, she 
preserved her hospitality and urbanity. She 



was in possession of the heroes helmet and two- 
handed sword, with which she conferred on 
Burns and myself the honor of knighthood, re- 
marking, that she had a better right to confer 
that title than some people. * * You will of 
course conclude that the old lady's political ten- 
ets were as Jacobitical as the poet's, a conform- 
ity which contributed not a little to the cordial- 
ity of our reception and entertainment. — She 
gave us as her first toast after dinner, Awa'' Un- 
cos, or Away with the Strangers. — Who these 
strangers were, you will readily understand. 
Mrs. A. corrects me by saying it should be Hooi, 
or Hooi, uncos, a sound used by shepherds to 
direct their dogs to drive away the sheep. 

" We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross (on 
the shore of Lochleven) and Queen's-ferry. 
I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing of 
poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive at Kin- 
ross, or had died there a short while before. A 
meeting between the bards, or a visit to the de- 
serted cottage and early grave of poor Bruce, 
would have been highly interesting.* 

"At Dunfermline we visited the ruined ab- 
bey and the abbey church, now consecrated to 
Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted the cut- 
ty stool, or stool of repentance, assuming the 
character of a penitent for fornication ; while 
Burns from the pulpit addressed to me a ludic- 
rous reproof and exhortation, parodied from that 
which had been delivered to himself in Ayr- 
shire, where he had, as he assured me, once 
been one of seven who mounted the seat ofsliame 
together. 

" In the church-yard two broad fiag-stones 
marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more ihan common vener- 
ation. He knelt and kissed the stone with sa- 
cred fervor, and heartily [suus ut mos erat) exe- 
crated the worse than Gothic neglect of the first 
of Scottish heroes."t 



The surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in his 
excellent letter, that the romantic scenery of the 
Devon should have failed to call forth any ex- 
ertion of the poet's m\ise, is not in its nature 
singular; and the disappointment felt at his not 
expressing in more glowing language his emo- 
tions on the sight of the famous cataract of that 
river, is similar to what was felt by the friends 
of Burns on other occasions of the same nature. 
Yet the inference that Dr. Adair seems inclined 
to draw from it, that he had little taste for the 
picturesque, might be questioned, even if it stood 
uncontroverted by other evidence. The muse 
of Burns was in a high degree capricious; she 
came uncalled, and olten refused to attend at his 
bidding. Oi' all the numerous subjects suggest- 
ed to him by his friends and correspondents, 
there is scarcely one that he adopted. I'he very 
expectation that a particular occasion would ex- 
cite the energies of his fancy, if communicated to 
Burns, seemed in him, as in other poets, de- 
structive of the effect expected. Hence perhaps 
may be explained, why the banks of the Devon 
and of the Tweed form no part of the subjects 
of his songs. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps ex- 
plain the want of emotion with which he view 
ed the Cauldron Linn. Certainly there are no 

* Bruce ded some years before. E. 

I Extracted from a teller of Dr. Adair to the Editor 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



191 



affections of the mind more deadened by the in- 
fluence ot previous expectation, than those aris- 
ing from the sight ot" natural objects, and more 
especially ot ol)jects of grandeur. Minute de- 
scriptions of scenes, of a sublime nature, should 
never be given to ihose who are about to view 
them, particularly if they are persons of great 
strength and sensibility of imagination. Lan- 
guage seldom or never conveys an adequate idea 
of such objects, but in the mind of a great poet 
it may excite a picture that far transcends them. 
The imaginatiotf of Burns might form a cataract, 
in comparison with which the Caldron Litiri 
would seem the purling of a rill, and even the 
mighty falls o{ Niagara, an humble cascade.* 

Whether these suggestions may assist in ex- 
plaining our bard's dertciency of impression on 
the occasion referred to, or whether it ought 
rather to be imputed to some pre-occupation, or 
indisposition of mind, we presume not to decide; 
but thai he was in general feelingly alive to the 
beautiful or sublime in scenery, may be support- 
ed by irresistible evidence. It is true this pleas- 
ure was greatly heightened in his mind, as might 
be expected, when combined with moral emo- 
tions of a kind with which it haply unites. That 
under this association Burns contemplated the 
scenery of the Devon with the eye of a genuine 
poet, some lines which he wrote at this very pe- 
riod, may bear witness. t 

The different journeys already mentioned did 
not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About the 
beginning of September, he again set out from 
Edinburgh on a more extended tour to the High- 
lands, in compimy with Mr. Nicol, with whom 
he had now contracted a particular intimacy, 
which lasted during the remainder of his life. 
Mr. Nicol was of Dumfrieshire. of a descent 
equally humble with our poet. Like him be rose 
by the strength of his talents, and fell by the 
strength of his passions. He died in the sum- 
mer of 1797. fiaving received the elements of 
a classical instruction at his parish-school, Mr. 
Nicol made a very rapid and singular proficien- 
cy ; and by early undertaking the ofiice of an 
instructor himself, he acquired the means of en- 
tering himself at the University of Edinburgh. 
There he was first a student of theology, then a 
student of medicine, and was employed in the 
assistance and instruction of graduates in medi- 
cine, in fnose parts of their exercises in which 
the Latij language is employed. In ihis situa- 
tion he was the contempurary and rival of 
the celebraied Dr. Brown, whom he resembled 
in the particulars of his history, as well as in tlie 

* Tills reasoninsr rrnght be exteiided, with some 
moilitication.s, to objerts ot siy:ht of every l^itid. To 
have formed hefore-hand a distinct picture in the 
mind, oi any interesinj; person or thuig, g -nerally 
lessens the pleasureof the first meeting w.ih tliem. 
Though ihis piciure be not superior, or even equal to 
the reantysiill \\ can never i.e expected to he an ex- 
act resomhiance ; ami the disappo.ntment felt at find- 
ing ihe ol)ject something dirterent from what w;is ex- 
jected. inteniipls and diminishes the enioti:)ns that 
wouM otiiervvise he proJuied. In such cases ih<^ sec- 
ond or tiiitd interview gives more p casnre than the 
first.— ^'cerAe Eliments of the PliHosophij of the Human 
Mind., bii Mr Uteipart, p. 484. Such publications as 
The Guide to the Lakes, where every scene is describ- 
ed in the most minute manner, and sometimes w th 
considerabl.' exaggeration of language, a-e in this 
point of view objectionable. 

t See the -on^ btgniniiig, 
" How pleasant the banks of the .• ding De- 

von," Poems, page 5o. 



leading features of his character. The office of 
assistant-teacher in the High-school being va- 
cant, it was, as usual, filled by competition ; and 
in the face of some prejudices, and, perhaps, of 
some well-founded objections, Mr. Nicol, by 
superior learning, carried it from all the other 
candidates. This office he tilled at the period 
of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented that an acquaintance with 
the writers of Greece and Rome does not al- 
ways supply an original watit of taste and cor- 
rectness in manners and conduct ; and where it 
fails of this efltct, it sometimes inflames the na- 
tive pride of temper, which treats with disdain 
those delicacies in which it has not learned to 
excel. It was thus with the fellow-traveler of 
Burns. Formed by nature in a model of great 
strength, neither his person nor his manners had 
any tincture of taste or elegance ; and his coarse- 
ness was not compensated by that romantic sen- 
sibility, and those towering flights of imagina- 
tion which distinguished the conversation of 
Burns, in the blaze of whose genius all the de- 
ficiencies of his manners were absorbed and dis- 
appeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet traveled in a post- 
chaise, which they engaged for the journey, and 
passing through the heart of the Highlands, 
stretched northwards, about ten miles beyond 
Inverness. There they bent their course east- 
ward, across the island, and returied by the 
shore of the German sea to Fidinbuigli. In the 
course of this tour, some particulars of wliich 
will be found in a letter of our bard. No. XXX. 
they visited a number of remarkable scenes, and 
the imagination of Burns was constantly excited 
by the wild and sublime scenery through which 
he passed. Uf this several proofs may be found 
in the poems formerly primed.* Of the history 
of one of these poems, The Humble Petilion of 
Bruar Water, and of the bard's visit to Athole 
House, some pariiculars will be found in No. 
XXIX; and by the favor of Mr. Walker of Perth, 
then residing in the family of the Duke of Ath- 
ole, we are enabled to give the following addi- 
tional account : 

" On reaching Blair he sent me notice of his 
arrival (as 1 had been previously acquainted 
with him,) and 1 hastened to meet him at ihe inn. 
The Duke, to whom he brought a letter of in- 
troduction was from home; but the Duchess, 
being informed of his arrival, gave bun an in- 
vitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He 
accepted the invitation ; but as the hour of sup- 
per was at some distance, begged 1 would in the 
interval be his guide through the grtuiiids. It 
was already growing dark ; yet the softened 
though faint and unct-rtain view of their beauties, 
which the moonlight afforded us. seemed exact- 
ly suited to the state of his feelings at the time. 
1 had ofien, like others, experienced the pleas- 
ures which arise from the sublime or elegant 
landscape, but I never saw those feelings so in- 
tense as in Burns. V\ hen we reached a rusitc 
hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a 
woody precipiece, from whi(;h there is a noble 
water-fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, 
and gave himself up to a lender, abstracted, and 
* See "Lines on scaring some water-fowl in I.och- 
Tnr t a wild scene among the hiMs of Ochtertyre." 
"1- ines written witli a Pencil over the Chimney-piece 
in the Inn at Kenmore, 'raymoiitli." 'I -ines writ- 
ten with a pencil standing by the fall of Fyers, near 
Lochncss." 



192 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. I can- 
not help thinking it might have been there that 
he conceived tiie idea of the following lines, 
■which he afterwards iniroduced into his poem 
on Bruar Water, when only fancying such a 
combination of objects as were now present to 
his eye. 

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, chequering throiieh the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

" It was with much difficulty I prevailed on 
him to quit the spot, and to be introduced in 
proper time to supper. 

" My curiosity was great to see how he would 
conduct himself in company so different from 
what he had been accustomed to.* His man- 
ner was unembarassed, plain and firm. He ap- 
peared to have complete reliance on his own na- 
tive good sense for directing his behavior. He 
seemed at once to perceive and to appreciate 
what was due to the company and to himself, 
and never to forget a proper respect for the sep- 
arate species of dignity belonging to each. He 
did not arrogate conversation, but when led into 
it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and manliness. 
He tried to exert hisabilities, because he knew it 
was ability alone ihat gave him a title to be there. 
The Duke's fine young family attracted much 
of his admiration ; he drank their healths as hon- 
est ?nen and bonnie lasses, an idea which was 
much applauded by the company, and with 
which he very felicitously closed his poem.t 

" Next day I took a ride with him through 
some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- 
borhood, and was highly gratified by his conver- 
sation. As a specimen of his happiness of con- 
ception and strength of expression, I will men- 
tion a remark which he made on his fellow-tra- 
veler, who was walking at the time a few pa- 
ces before us. He was a man of robust but clum- 
sy person ; and while Burns was expressing to 
me the value he entertained for him on account 
of his vigorous talents, although they were cloud- 
ed at times by coarseness of manners ; 'in short,' 
he added, ' his mind is like his body, he has a 
confounded strong, inkneed sort of a soul.' 

"Much attention was paid to Burns both be- 
fore and after the Duke's return, of which he 
was perfectly sensible, without being vain ; and 
at his depart\ire 1 recommended to him, as the 
most appropriate return he could make, to write 
some descriptive verses on any of the scenes 
with which he had been so much delighted. 
After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, 
visited the Falls of Bruar, and in a few days I 
received a letter Irom Inverness, with the vers- 
es enclosed." t 

It appears that the impression made by our 
poet on the noble family of Athole, was in a 
high degree favorable ; it is certain he was 
charmed with the reception he received from 
them, and he often mentioned the two days he 
spent at Athole House as amongst the happiest 
of his life. He was warmly mvited to pro- 
long his stay, but sacrificed his inclinations to 
his engagement with Mr. Nicoi ; which is the 

* In the preceding winter. Burns had been in com- 
pany of the highest rank in Edinburgh ; but this de- 
scription of his manners is perfectly applicable to his 
first appearance in such society. 

t See The Humble Petition of Rrnar Water. 

t Extract of a letter Irom Mr. Walker to Mr. Cun- 
ningham. See Letter, No. XXIX. 



more to be regretted, as he w^ould otherwise 
have been introduced to Mr. Dundas (then daily 
expected on a visit to the Duke,) a circumstance 
which might Iiave had a favorable influence on 
Burns' future Jortunes. At Athole House he 
met, for the first time, Mr. Graham of Fintry, 
to whom he was afterwards indebted for his of- 
fice in the Excise. 

The letter and poems which he addressed to 
Mr. Graham, bear testimony of his sensibility, 
and justify the supposition, that he would not 
have been deficient in gratitude had he been 
elevated to a situation better suited to his dis- 
position and to his talents.* 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, our 
poet and his fellow-traveler arrived at Fochabers. 
In the course of the preceding winter Burns had 
been introduced to the Dutchess of Gordon at 
Edinburgh, and presuming on this acquaintance, 
he proceeded to Gordon- Castle, leaving Mr. 
Nicol at the inn in the village. At the castle 
our poet was received with the utmost hospi- 
tality and kindness, and the family being about 
to sit down to dinner, he was invited to take 
his place at the table as a matter of course. 
This invitation he accepted, and after drinking 
a few glasses of wine, he rose up, and proposed 
to withdraw. On being pressed to stay, he 
mentioned for the first time, his engagement 
with his fellow-traveler : and his noble host 
offering to send a servant to conduct Mr. Nicol 
to the castle. Burns insisted on undertaking 
that olfice himself. He was, however, accom- 
panied by a gentleman, a particular acquaint- 
ance of the Duke, by whom the invitation was 
delivered in all the forms of politeness. The 
invitation came too late ; the pride of Nicol was 
inflamed into a high degree of passion, by the 
neglect which he liad already suffered. He had 
ordered the horses to be put to the carriage, 
being determined to proceed on his journey 
alone ; and they found him parading the streets 
of Fochabers, before the door of the inn, vent- 
ing his anger on the postillion, for the slowness 
with which he obeyed his commands. As no 
explanation nor entreaty could change the pur- 
pose of his fellow-traveler, our poet was reduc- 
ed to the necessity of separating from him en- 
tirely, or of instantly proceeding with him on 
their journey. He chose the last of these al- 
ternatives ; and seating himself beside Nicol in 
the post-chaise with mortification and regret, 
he turned his back on Gordon Castle where he 
had promised himself some happy days. Sen- 
sible, however, of the great knidness of the no- 
ble family, he made the best return in his pow- 
er, by the poem beginning, 

"Streams that glide in orient plains."! 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the 
greater part of the winter, 1787-8, and again 
entered into the society and dissipation of that 
metropolis. It appears that on the 31st day of 
December, he attended a meeting to celebrate 
the birth-day of the lineal descendant of the 
Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might have 
been the wish or purpose of the original in- 
stitutors of this annual meeting, there is no rea 

*See the first Epistle to Mr. Graham, soliciting an 
employment in the Excise, Letter No. LVI. and his 
second Epistle, Poems, p. 4S. 

t This information is extracted from a letter of Dr. 
Couper of Fochabers, to the Editor. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



19: 



son to suppose that the gentlemen of whom it 
was at tins time composed, were not perfectly 
lojal to the king on the throne. It is not to 
be conceived thai ihcy entertained any hope of, 
any wish for, the restoration of the House of 
Stuart ; but, over their sparkling wine, they in- 
dulged the generous feelings which the recol- 
lection of lallen greatness is calculated to in- 
spire ; and comemorated the heroic valor which 
strove to sustain it in vain — valor worthy of a 
nobler cause, and a happier fortune. On this 
occasion our bard took upon himself the oflice 
of poet-laureate, and produced an ode, which, 
though deficient in the complicated rhythm and 
polislied versification that such compositions re- 
quire, might, on a fair competition, where energy 
of leeliiigs and ot expression were alone in ques- 
tion, have won the butt of malmsey trom the real 
laureate of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as a speci- 
men : 

***** ^ 

False flatterer, Hope, away! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore ; 

We solemnize tliis sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth — we can no more : 

And. ownini; Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive, low, adore. 

Ye honored, mighty dead '. 
Who nobly jierished in the glorious cause, 
Your k iin?, your country, and hrr laws ! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led, 
And fell a martyr in her arms, 
(What breiist of iiortiiern ice hut warms ?) 

To hold Baimerino's nndyinii name, [flame. 

Whose soul of fire, liijlited at Heaven's hi<:Ii 
Deserves the j;roudest wreath depiirted heroes 
claim.* 

Nor unrevennjed your fate shall be, 

It only lajjs the fatal hour ; 
Your hlood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last the unsparinc power 
As from the cl ff, with thundering course 

Tl>e snowy ruin siimkes aloi;2, 
Wuh doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage inthe vale! 
So Vengeance * * * 

In relating the incidents of our poet's life in 
Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the sen- 
timents of respect and sympathy with which he 
traced out the grave of his predecessor Ferguson, 
over whose ashes in the Canongate church-yard, 
he obtained leave to erect an humble monument, 
which will be viewed by reflecting minds with 
no common interest, and which will awake in 
the bosom of kindred genius, many a high emo- 
tion. t Neither should we pass over the contin- 
ued friendship he experienced from a poet then 
living, the amiable and accomplished Black- 
lock. — To his encouraging advice it was owing 
(as has already appeared) that Burns, instead of 
emigrating to the West Indies, repaired to Ed- 
inburgh. He received hirn there with all the ar- 
dor of affectionate admiration ; he eagerly intro- 
duced him to the respectable circle of his friends; 

* In the first part of this ode, tncre is some beauti- 
ful imagery, wh ch the poet after tvf.rds interwove in 
a happier manner in tlie Chevalier's Lament. (."*ee 
l<etier. No. LXV.) Hut if there were no other rea- 
sons for omiuing to print the entire poem, the want 
of originality would be sufficient. A considerable 
part of it is a kind of rant, for which indeed precedent 
may be cited in various birlh-day odes, but with 
which it is impossible to go along. 

\ See Letters No. XIX. and XX., where the English 
will be found, &:c. .. .-. 



he consulted his interest ; he blazoned his fame ; 
he lavished upon him all the kindness of a gen- 
erous and feeling heart, into which nothing sel- 
fish or envious ever found admittance. Among 
the friends to whom he introduced Burns was 
Mr. Ramsay of Ochiertyre, to whom our poet 
paid a visit in the autumn of 1787, at his delight- 
ful retirement in the neighborhood of iStirlnig, 
and on the banks of the Teith. Of this visit we 
have the following particulars: 

" I have been in the company of many men 
of genius," says Mr. Ramsay, "some of them 
poets ; but never witnessed such flashes ol in- 
tellectual brightness as from him, the impulse 
of the moment, sparks of celestial fire ! 1 nev- 
er was more delighted, therefore, than with his 
company for two days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed 
company I should have made little of him ; for, 
in the gamester's phrase, he did not always 
know when to play ofiand when to play on. * 
* * I not only proposed the writing of a play 
similar to the Gentle Shepherd, qualem decet es- 
se sorrem, but Scottish Georgics, a subject which 
Thomson has by no means exhausted in his 
Seasons. What beautiful landscapes of rural 
life and manners might not have been expected 
from a pencil so faithful and forcible as his, 
which could have exhibited scenes as familiar 
and interesting as those in the Gentle Shepherd, 
which every one vvho knows our swains in their 
unadulterated state, instantly recognises as true 
to nature. But to have executed either of these 
plans, steadiness and abstraction from company 
were wanting, not talents. When I asked him 
whether the Edinburgh Literati had mended his 
poems by their criticisms, ' Sir,' said he, ' these 
gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my 
country, who spin their thread so fine that it is 
neither fit for weft nor woof.' He said that he 
had n(n changed a word except one to please Dr. 
Blair."* 

Having settled with his publisher, Mr. Creech, 
in February, 1788, Burns found himself master 
of nearly five hundred pounds, after discharging 
all his expenses. Two hundred pounds he im- 
mediately advanced to his brother Gilbert, who 
had taken on himself the support of their aged 
mother, and was struggling with many difficul- 
ties in the farm of Mossgiel. With the remain- 
der of this sum, and some farther eventful prof- 
its from his poems, he determined on settling 
himself for life in the occupation of agriculture, 
and took from Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, the 
farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the river Nith, 
six miles above Dumfries, on which he entered 
at Whitsunday, 1788. Having been previously 
recommended to the Board of Excise, his name 
had been put on the list of candidates for the 
humble office of a gauger or exciseman ; and he 
immediately applied to acquiring the information 
necessary lor tilling that office, when the honor- 
able Board might judge it proper to employ him. 
He expected to be called into service in the dis- 
trict in which his farm was situated, and vainly 
hoped to unite with success the labors of the 
farmer with the duties of the exciseman. 

* J-j^.tract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay to the Editor. 
This incorrigibility of Burns extended, however, only 
to his poems printed before he arrived in Edinburgh; 
for in regard to his unpublished poems, he was amen- 
able tr) criticism, of which many proofs might be giv- 
en. See some remarks on this subject, in the Appen- 
dix. 



194 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



When Burns had in ihis manner arranged his 
plans for futurity, his generous heart turned to 
theobject of his most ardent atiachinent, and lis- 
tening to no considerations but those of honor 
and affection, he joined wiih her in a pubhc de- 
claration of marriage, thus legalizing their un- 
ion, and rendering it permanent for life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a 
specimen of his poetry had recommended him 
to Mr. Miller of Dalwiston. Understanding 
that he intended to resume the life of a farmer, 
Mr. Miller had invited him, in the spring of 
1787, to view his estate in Nithsdale, offering 
him at the same time the choice of any of his 
farms out of lease, at such a rent as Burns and 
his friends might judge proper. It was not in the 
nature of Burns to take an undue advantage of 
the liberality of Mr. Miller. He proceeded in 
this business, however, with more than usual 
deliberation. Having made choice of the farm 
of Ellisland, he employed two of his friends, 
skilled in the vahie of land, to examine it, and 
with their approbation offered a rent lo Mr. Mil- 
ler, which was immediately accepted. It was 
not convenient for Mrs. Burns to remove im- 
mediately from Ayrshire, and our poet therefore 
took up his residence alone at Ellisland, lo pre- 
pare for the reception of his wife and children, 
•who joined him towards the end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now found him- 
self was calculated to awaken reflection. The 
different steps he had of late taken were in their 
haiure nighly important, and might be said to 
have in some measure fixed his destiny. He 
had become a husband and a faiher ; he had en- 
gaged in the management of a considerable farm, 
a difficult and laborious undertaking ; in his suc- 
cess the happiness of his family was involved ; 
it was time, therefore, to abandon the gayety 
and dissipation of which he had been too much 
enamored ; to ponder seriously on the past, and 
to form virtuous resolutions respecting the fu- 
ture. That such was actually the state of his 
mind, the following extract from his common- 
place book may bear witness : 

" Ellisland, Sunday, lith June, 1788. 

•* This is now the third day that 1 have been 
in this country. ' Lord, what is man !' What a 
bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas 
and fancies! and what a capricious kind of ex- 
istence he has here I * * * There is indeed an 
elswhere, where, as Thomson says, virtue sole 
survives. 

'Tell us. ye dead, 

Will none of you in pity disclose the -secret 

What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be 7 

A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close.' 

■" I am such a coward in life, so tired of the 
eervice. that I would almost at any time, with 
Milton's Adam, ' gladly lay me in my mother's 
lap, and be at peace.' 

" But a wile and children bind me to strug- 
gle wiih the stream, till some sudden squall shall 
overset the silly vessel ; or in the listless return 
of years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. 
Farewell now to those giddy follies, those var- 
nished vices, which, ihouith half-sanctified by ihe 
bewitching levity of wit and humor, are at best 
but thrifiless idling with the precious current of 
existence ; nay, often poisoning the whole, that, 
like the plains of Jericho, the vmler is nought, 
and the ground barren, and nothing short of a 



supernaturally gifted Elisha can ever after heal 
the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles 
me hardest to care, if virtue and religion were 
to be any thing with me but names, was what 
in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in 
my present situation it was absolutely necessa- 
ry. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of char- 
acter, justice to my own happiness for after-life, 
so far as it could depend (which it surely will a 
great deal) on internal peace; all these joined 
their warmest suffrages, their most powerful so- 
licitations, with a rooted attachment, to urge 
the step I have taken. Nor have I any reason 
on her part to repent it. I can fancy how, but 
have never seen where, I could have made a 
better choice. Come, then, let me act up to 
my favorite motto, that glorious passage in 
Young— 

'• On reason build resolve. 
That column of true majesty in man!" 

Under the impulse of these reflections, Burns 
immediately engaged in rebuilding the dwelling- 
house on his farm, which, in the state he found 
it. was inadequate to the accommodation of his 
family. On this occasion, he himself resumed 
at times the occupation of a laborer, and found 
neither his strengthor his skill impaired. Pleas- 
ed with surveying the grounds he was about to 
cultivate, and wiih the rearing of a building that 
should give shelter to his wife and children, and, 
as he fondly hoped, to his own gray hairs, sen- 
timents of independence buoyed up his mind, 
pictures of domestic content and peace rose on 
his imagination ; and a few days passed away, 
as he himself informs us, the most tranquil, if 
not the happiest, which he had ever experien- 
ced.* 

It is to be lamented that at this critical period 
of his lile, our poet was without the society of 
his wife and children. A great change had ta- 
ken place in his situation ; his old habits were 
broken ; and the new circumstances in which 
he was placed were calculated to give a new di- 
rection to his thoughts and conduct. t But his 
application to the cares and labors of his farm 
was interrupted by several visits to his family 
in Ayrshire ; and as the distance was too great 
for a single day's journey, he generally spent a 
night at an inn on the road. On such occasions 
he sometimes fell into company, and forgot the 
resolutions he had formed. In a little while 
temptation assailed him nearer home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the atten- 
tion of his neighbors, and he soon formed a gen- 
eral acquaintance in the district in which he liv- 
ed. I'he public voice had now pronounced on 
the subject of his talents; the reception he had niet 
with in Edinburgh had given him the currency 
which fashion bestows ; he had surmounted the 
prejudices arising from his humble birth, and 
he was received at the table of the gentlemen of 
Nithsdale with welcome, with kindness, and 
even with respect. Their social parties too of- 

* Animated sentiments of any kind, ahnost always 
pave rise in our poet to some production ol his muse. 
His sentiments on ihs occasion were m part CA'pres- 
sed by the vigorous and characteristic, though not 
very delicate song, beuinning. 

" 1 hae a wi ie o' my ain, 
ril partake wi' iiae body ;" 
t Mrs. Burns was aboui to be confined in child-bed, 
and the house at Ellisland was rebuilding. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



195 



ten seduced him from his rustic labor and his 
rustic tare, overthrew the unsteady fabric of his 
resolutions, and inflamed those propensities 
which temperance might have weakened, and 
prudence uUimately suppressed.* It was not 
long, therefore, before Burns began to view his 
farm with dishke and despondence, if not with 
disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years looked 
to an office in the excise as a certain means of 
livelihood, should his other expectations fail. 
As has already been mentioned, he had been 
recommended to the board of excise, and had re- 
ceived the instructions necessary for such a sit- 
uation. He now applied to be employed; and 
by the interest of Mr. Graham of Fintry, was 
appointed exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called, 
gaugcr, of the district in which he Jived. His 
farm was. after this, in a great measure abandon- 
ed to servants, while he betook himself to the 
duties of his new appointment. 

He might, indeed, still be seen in the spring, 
directing his plough, a labor in which he excel- 
led ; or with a while sheet, containing his seed- 
corn, slung across his shoulders, striding with 
measured steps along his turned-up furrows, and 
scattering the grain m the earth. But his farm 
no longer occupied the principal part of his care 
or his thoughts. It was not at EUisland that he 
was now in general to be found. Mounted on 
horseback, this high-minded poet was pursuing 
the defaulters of the revenue, among the hills 
and vales of Nithsdale, his roving eye wander- 
ing over the charms of nature, and muttering 
his way ward /unci es as he moved along. 

" 1 had an adventure with him in the year 
1790," says Mr. Ramsay, of Ochtertyre, in a 
letter to the editor, " when passing through 
Dumfriessbire,on a tour to the South, with Dr. 
Stewart of Luss. Seeing him pass quickly, near 
Closeburn, I said to my companion, ' that is 
Burns.' On coming to the inn, the hostler told 
us he would be back in a few hours to grant per- 
mits ; that where he met with any thing seiza- 
ble, he was no better than any oilier gauger ; in 
every thing else he was perfectly a gentleman. 
Alter leaving a note to be delivered to liim on 
his return, I proceeded to his house, being curi- 
ous to see his Jean, &.c. I was much pleased 
with his uxor Sahina qualis, and the poet's mod- 
est mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary 
rustics. In the evening he suddenly bounced 
in upon us, and said, as he entered, I come, to 
use the words of Shakspeare, stewed in haute. 
In fact he had ridden incredibly fast after receiv- 
ing my note. We fell inio conversation direct- 
ly, and soun got into the mare magnum ol poet- 
ry. He told me he had now gotten a story for 
a drama, which he was locall Hob ]Slacquechan''s 
Elshon, from a popular story of Robert Bruce 

•The poem of The Whistle (Poeni, p. 55) celel^rates 
a liacchaiialiitn coruest ariKins^ ihree geiillenieti of 
Nithsdale, where Hums appears as iiin|iiie. Mr-Kul- 
dell died before our hard. ai)d some elegant verses lo 
his memory will be found enliiled, .Sonnet un the death 
of Hubert Ridilell. From him, and from all tlie mem- 
bers of his family. Burns receded noi kiidiiess only, 
but fiiendship ; and the society he met in general at 
Friar's Carse was calculated to inprovo Ins habits as 
well as hi.< manners. iMr. Fergnsson of Craigdarroch. 
80 well known for liis eloquence and social talents, 
died soon after our poet. Sir Robert Laurie, the tiiird 
person in the drama, survives, and has since been en- 
gaged in a contest of a blood er nature. Long may 
he "live to tight the battles of his country ! (1799.) 



being defeated on the water of Caern, when the 
heel of his boot having loosened in his flight, he 
applied to Robert Macquechan to fit it ; who, to 
make sure, ran his awl ten inches up the king's 
heel. We were now going on at a great rate, 

when Mr. S popped in his head, which put 

a stop to our discourse, which had become very 
interesting. Yet in a little while it was resum- 
ed ; and such was the force and versatility of 
ihe bard's genius, that he made the tears run 

down Mr. S 's cheeks, albeit unused to 

ihe poetic strain. * * * From that time we 
met no more, and I was grieved at the reports 
ot him afterwards. Poor Burns ! we shall hard- 
ly see his like again. He was, in truth, a sort 
of a comet in literature, irregular in its motions, 
which did not do good proportioned to the blaze 
of light it displayed." 

In the summer of 1791, two English gentle- 
men, who had before met with him in Edin- 
burgh, paid a visit to him at EUisland. On call- 
ing at the house they were informed that he had 
walked out on the banks of the river ; and dis 
mounting from their horses, they proceeded in 
search of him. On a rock that projected into 
the stream, they saw a man employed in ang- 
ling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap 
made of a fox's skin on his head, a loose great 
coat fixed rouud him by a belt, from which de- 
pended an enormous Highland broad-sword. It 
was Burns. He received them with great cordi- 
ality, and asked them to share his humble din- 
ner — an invitation which they accepted. On the 
table they found boiled beef, with vegetables, 
and barley-broth, after the manner of Scotland, 
of which they partook heartily. After dinner, 
the bard told ihem ingenuously that he had no 
wine to ofler them, nothing better than High- 
land whisky, a bottle of which Mrs. Burns set on 
the board. He produced at the same time his 
punch-bowl, made of Inverary marble ; and, 
mixing the spirit with water and sugar, filled 
their glasses, and invited them to drink.* The 
travelers were in haste, and besides, the flavor 
of ihe whisky to their sotithem palates was 
scarcely tolerable ; but the generous poet ofler- 
ed them his best, and his ardent hospitality they 
found it impossible to resist. Burns was in his 
happiest muod, and the charms of his conversa- 
tion were altogether fascinating. He ranged 
over a great variety of topics, illuminating what- 
ever he touched. He related the tales ol his in- 
fancy and of his youth ; he recited some of the 
gayest and some of the tenderest of his poems ; 
III the wildest of his strains of mirth, he threw 
in suine touches of melancholy, and spread 
around him ihe electric emotions of his power- 
ful mind. The Highland whisky improved in 
it.s flavor ; the marble bowl was again and again 
emptied and replenished ; the guests of our poet 
iorgut the flight of time, and the dictates of pru- 
dence : at the hour oi midnight they lost their 
v\ay in returning to Dumfries, and could scarce- 
ly distinguish it when assisted by the morning's 
dawii.t 

Besides his duties in the excise and his social 
pleasures, otner circumstances interfered with 
ihe atteniioii ot Burns to his farm. He engag- 
ed in the formation of a society for purchasing 

♦ This bowl was made of the lapis ollaris, the stone 
of which Inverary-house is built, the mansion of ihe 
family of Argyle. 

t Given from the information of one of the party. 



196 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



and circulating books among the farmers of his 
neighborhood, of which he undertook the man- 
agement ;* and he occupied himself occasional- 
ly in composing songs for the musical work of 
Mr. Johnson, then in the course of publication. 
These engagements, useful and honorable in 
themselves, contributed, no doubt, to the ab- 
straction of his thoughts from the business of 
agriculture. 

The consequence may be easily imagined. 
Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and good 
management of Mrs. Burns, and though his 
rent was moderate and reasonable, our poet 
found it convenient, if not necessary, to resign 
his farm to Mr. Miller ; after having occupied 
it three years and a half His office in the ex- 
cise had originally produced about fifty pounds 
per annum. Having acquitted himself to the 
satisfaction of the board, he had been appointed 
to a new district, the emoluments of which rose 
to about seventy pounds per annum. Hoping 
to support himself and his family on this hum- 
ble income till promotion should reach him, he 
disposed of his stock and of his crop on Ellis- 
land by public auction, and removed to a small 
house which he had taken in Dumfries, about 
the end of the year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess in 
social parties, had abstained from the habitual 
use of strong liquors, and his constitution had 
not suffered any permanent injury from the ir- 
regularities of his conduct. In Dumfries, temp- 
tations to the sin that so easily beset him, con- 
tinually presented themselves ; and his irregu- 
larities grew by degrees into habits. These 
temptations unhappily occurred during his en- 
gagements in the business of his office, as well 
as during his hours of relaxation ; and though 
he clearly foresaw the consequences of yielding 
to them, his appetites and sensations, which 
could not prevent the dictates of his judgment, 
finally triumphed over the powers of his will. 
Yet this victory was not gained without many 
obstinate struggles, and at times temperance 
and virtue seemed to have obtained the mas- 
tery. Besides his engagements in the excise, 
and the society into which he was led, many 
circumstances contributed to the melancholy 
fate of Burns. His great celebrity made him 
an object of interest and curiosity to strangers, 
and few persons of cultivated minds passed 
through Dumfries without attempting to see 
our poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of Iiis con- 
versation. As he could not receive them under 
his own humble roof, these interviews passed 
at the inns of the town, and often terminated 
in those excesses which Burns sometimes pro- 
voked, and was seldom able to resist. And 
among the inhabitants of Dumfries and its vi- 
cinity, there were never wanting persons to 
share his social pleasures ; to lead or accompa- 
ny him to the tavern ; to partake in the wild- 
est sallies of his wit ; to witness the strength 
and the degradation of his genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society of 
persons of taste and respectability, and in their 
company could impose on himself the restraints 
of temperance and decorum. Nor was his 
muse dormant. In the four years which he 
lived in Dumfries, he produced many of his 
beautiful lyrics, though it does not appear that 
he attempted any poem of considerable length, 
* SeeNo.LXXXVlII. 



During this time he made several excursions 
into the neighboring country, of one of which, 
through Galloway, an account is j)reserved in 
a letter of Mr. Syme, written soon after ; which, 
as it gives an animated picture of him, by a 
correct and masterly hand, we shall present to 
the reader. 

" I got Burns a gray Highland shelty to ride 
on. We dined the first day, 27ih July, 1793, 
at Glendenwynes of Parton I a beautiful situa- 
tion on the banks of the Dee, In the evening 
we walked out, and ascended a gentle eminence, 
from which we had as fine a view of Alpine 
scenery as can well be imagined. A delightful 
soft evening showed all its wilder as well as 
grander graces. Immediately opposite, and 
within a mile of us, we saw Airds, a charm- 
ing romantic place, where dwelt Low. the au- 
thor of Mary weep no more for me* This was 
classical ground for Burns. He viewed " the 
highest hill which rises o'erthe source oi Dee ;" 
and would have staid till "the passing spirit" 
had appeared, had we not resolved to reach 
Kenmore that night. We arrived as Mr. and 
Mrs Gordon were sitting down to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The cas- 
tle, an old building, stands on a large natural 
moat. In front, the river Ken winds for sever- 
al miles through the most fertile and beautiful 
holm,f till it expands into a lake twelve miles 
long, the banks of which, on the south, present 
a fine and soft landscape of green knolls, natur- 
al wood, and here and there a gray rock. On 
the north, the aspect is great, wild, and, I may 
say, tremendous. In short, I can scarcely con- 
ceive a scene more terribly romantic than the 
castle of Kenmore. Burns thinks so highly of 
it, that he meditates a description of it in poet- 
ry. Indeed, I believe he has begun the work. 
We spent three days with M". Gordon, whose 
polished hospitality is of an original and endear- 
ing kind. Mrs. Gordon's lap-dog. Echo, was 
dead. She would have an epitaph tor him. Sev- 
eral had been made. Burns was asked for one. 
This was setting Hercules to his distaff. He 
disliked the subject ; but to please the lady he 
would try. Here is what he produced : — 

"In wood and wild, ye warbling throng. 

Your heavy loss deplore ! 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet echo is no more. 

Ye jarring, screeching things around, 

iScream your discordant joys : 
Now half your din of tuneless song 

With Echo silent lies." 

" We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse. 
I took him the moor-road, where savage and 
desolate regions extended wide around. The 
sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of 
the soil ; it became lowering ai-sd dark. The 
hollow winds sighed the lightnings gleamed, 
the thunder rolled. The poet enjoyed the aw- 

*A beautiful and well-known ballad, which begins 
thus : — 

The moon had climbed the highest hill, 

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And, from the eastern summit, shed 
Its silver light on tower and tree. 
+ The level low ground on the banks of a river or 
stream. This word should be adopted from the Scot- 
tish, as, indeed ought several others of the same na- 
ture. That dialect is singularly copious and exact 
in the denominations of natural objects. E. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



197 



ful scene — he spoke not a word, but seemed 
wrapt in meditation. In a little while the ram 
began to tall ; it poured in floods upon us. For 
three hours did the wild elements Tumble l/ieir 
belly full upon our defenceless heads. Oh ! Ok ! 
'< was foul. We got utterly wet; and to re- 
venge ourselves, Burns insisted at Gatehouse 
on our getting utterly drunk. 

"From Gatehouse, we went next day to 
Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But 
here I must tell you that Burns had got a pair 
oi jemmy boots lor the journey, which had been 
thoroughly wet, and which had been dried in 
such a manner that it was not possible to gv.x 
them on again. The brawny poet tried force, 
and tore them to shreds. A whiffling vexation 
of this sort is more trying to the temper than a 
serious calamity. We were going to St. Ma- 
ry's Isle, the seat of the Earl of Selkirk, and 
the forlorn Burns was discomfited at the thought 
of his ruined boots. A sick stomach, and a 
head-ache, lent their aid, and the man of verse 
was quite accable'. I attempted to reason with 
him. Mercy on us ! how he did fume with 
rage ! Nothing could reinstate him in temper. 
I tried various expedients, and at last hit on one 
that succeeded. I showed him the house of * * *, 
across the bay of Wigton. Against* * *, with 
whom he was ofTended, he expectorated his 
spleen, and regained a most agreeable temper. 
He was in a most epigrammatic humor indeed I 
He afterwards fell on humbler game. There is 
one * * *, whom he does not love. He had a 
passing blow at him : — 

" When , deceasf^d, to the devil went down, 

'T was nothing would serve him but Satan's own 

crown : 
Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear 

never, 
I grant thou 'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever." 

" Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright 
along with our poet, without boots. I carried 
the torn ruins across my saddle in spite of his 
fulminations, and in contempt of appearances ; 
and what is more, Lord Selkirk carried them 
in his coach to Dumiries. He insisted they 
were worth mending. 

"We reached Kirkcudbright about 1 o'clock. 
I had promised that we should dine with one 
of the first men in our country, J. Dalzell. But 
Burns was in a wild obstreperous humor, and 
swore he would not dine where he should be 
under the smallest restraint. We prevailed, 
therefore, on Mr. Dalzell to dine with us in the 
inn, and had a very agreeable party. In the 
evening we set out for St. Mary's Isle. Rob- 
ert had not absolutely regained the milkiness 
of good temper, and it occurred once or twice 
to him, as we rode along, that St. Mary's Isle 
was the seat of a Lord ; yet that Lord was not 
an aristocrat, at least in the sense of the word. 
We arrived about eight o'clock, as the family 
were at tea and coffee. St. Mary's Isle is one 
of the most delightful places that can, in my 
opinion, be formed by the assemblage of every 
soft, but not tame object which constitutes na- 
tural and cultivated beauty. But not to dwell 
on its external graces, let me tell you that we 
found all the ladies of the family (all beautiful) 
at home, and some strangers; and among oth- 
ers, who but Urbani ! The Italian sung us ma- 
ny Scottish songs, accompanied with instru- 
mental music. The two young ladies of Sel- 



kirk sung also. We had the song of Lord 
(.ircgory, which I asked (or, to have an oppor- 
tunity ot calling on Burns to recite his ballad 
to that tune. He did recite it; and such was 
the eflect that a dead silence ensued. It was 
such a silence as a mind ol feeling naturally 
preserves when it is touched with that enthusi- 
asm which banishes every other thought but the 
contemplation and indulgence of the sympathy 
produced. Burns' Lord Gregory is, in my 
opinion, a most beautilul and afi'eciing ballad. 
The iasiidious critic may perhaps say some of 
the sentiments and imagery are of too elevated 
a kind lor such a style of composition ; for in- 
stance, " Thou bolt of heaven that passest by," 
and, '• Ye. mustering thunder," &c.. but this 
is a cold-blooded objection, which will be said 
rather than/t7<. 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord 
Selkirk's. We had. in every sense of the 
word, a feast, in which our minds and our 
senses were equally gratified. The poet was 
delighted with his company, and acquitted him- 
selt to admiration. The lion that had raged so 
violently in the morning, was now mild and 
gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to 
Dumfries, and so ends our peregrination. I 
told you, that in the midst of the storm, on the 
wilds of Kenmore, Burns was wrapt in medi- 
tation. What do you think he was about ? He 
was charging the English army along with 
Bruce, at Bannockburn. He was engaged in 
the same manner on our ride home from St. 
Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next 
day he produced me the following address of 
Bruce to his troops, and gave me a copy for 
Dalzell." 

"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," &c. 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion in 
the excise ; but circumstances occurred which 
retarded their fulfillment, and which, in his own 
mind, destroyed all expectation of their ever 
being fulfilled. The extraordinary events which 
ushered in the revolution of France, interested 
the feelings, and excited the hopes of men in 
every corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyran- 
ny seemed about to disappear from among men, 
and the day-star of reason to rise upon a be- 
nighted world. In the dawn of this beautiful 
morning, the genius of French freedom appear- 
ed on our southern horizon with the counte- 
nance of an angel, but speedily assumed the 
features of a demon, and vanished in a shower 
of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and a cavalier, 
Burns had shared in the original hopes enter- 
tained of this astonishing revolution, by ardent 
and benevolent minds. The novelty and the 
hazard of the attempt meditated by the First, 
or Constituent Assembly, served rather, it is 
probable, to recommend it to his daring temper; 
and the unfettered scope proposed to be given 
to every kind of talents, was doubtless gratifying 
to the feelings of conscious but indignant genius. 
Burns foresaw not the mighty ruin that was to 
be the immediate consequence of an enterprise, 
which, on its commencement, promised so much 
happiness to the human race. And even after 
the career of guilt and of blood had commenc- 
ed, he could not immediately, it may be pre- 
sumed, withdraw his partial gaze from a peo- 
ple who had so lately breathed the sentimema 



198 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



of universal peace and benignity ; or obliterate 
in his bosom the pictures of hope and of hap- 
piness to which those sentiments had given 
birth. Under these impressions, he did not al- 
ways conduct himself with the circumspection 
and prudence which his dependent situation 
seemed to demand. He engaged indeed in no 
popular associations, so common at the time of 
which we speak : but in company he did not 
conceal his opinions of public measures, or of 
the reforms required in the practice of our gov- 
ernment ; and sometimes in his social and un- 
guarded moments, he uttered them with a wild 
and unjustifiable vehemence. Information of 
this was given to the Board of Excise, with the 
exaggerations so general in such cases. A su- 
perior officer in that department was authorized 
to inquire into his conduct. Burns defended 
himself in a letter addressed to one of the 
Board, written with great independence of 
spirit, and with more than his accustomed elo- 
quence. The officer appointed to inquire into 
his conduct gave a favorable report. His stea- 
dy friend, Mr. Graham of Fintry, interposed 
his good offices in his behalf; and the impru- 
dent ganger was suffered to retain his situation, 
but given to understand that his promotion was 
deferred, and must depend on his future behav- 
ior. 

" This circumstance made a deep impression 
on the mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his 
misconduct, and represented him as actually dis- 
missed from his office ; and this report induced 
a gentleman of much respectability to propose 
a subscription in his favor. The offer was re- 
fused by our poet in a letter of great elevation 
of sentiment, in which he gives an account of 
the whole of this transaction, and defends him- 
self from the imputation of disloyal sentiments 
on the one hand, and on the other, from the 
charge of having made submissions for the sake 
of his office, unworthy of his character. 

" The partiality of my countrymen," he ob- 
serves, " has brought me forward as a man of 
genius, and has given me a character to sup- 
port. In the poet I have avowed manly and 
independent sentiments, which I hope have 
been found in the man. Reasons of no less 
weight than the support of a wife and children, 
have pointed out my present occupation as the 
only eligible line of life within my reach. Still 
my honest fame is my dearest concern, and a 
thousand times have I trembled at the idea of 
the degrading epithets that malice and misrep- 
resentation may affix to my name. Often in 
blasting anticipation have I listened to some 
future hackney-scribbler, with the heavy mal- 
ice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting 
that Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronnade 
of independence to be found in his works, and 
after having been held up to public view, and 
to public estimation, as a man of some genius, 
yet, quite destitute of resources to support his 
borrowed dignity, dwindled info a paltry ex- 
ciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignif- 
icant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and 
among the lowest of mankind. 

" In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me 
to lodge my strong disavowal and defiance of 
Buch slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor 
naan from his birth, and an exciseman by neces- 
sity ; but— 1 will say it ! the sterling of his hon- 
est worth poverty could not debase, and his 



independent British spirit, oppression might 
bend, but could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to copy 
this letter into his book of manuscripts, accom- 
panied by some additional remarks on the same 
subject. It is not surprising, that at a season 
of universal alarm for the safety of the consti- 
tution, the indiscreet expressions of a man so 
powerful as Burns, should have attracted no- 
tice. The times certainly required extraordi- 
nary vigilance in those intrusted with the ad- 
ministration of the government, and to ensure 
the safety of the constitution was doubtless 
their first duty. Yet generous minds will la- 
ment that their measures of precaution should 
have robbed the imagination of our poet of the 
last prop on which his hopes of independence 
rested; and by embittering his peace, have ag- 
gravated those excesses which were soon to 
conduct him to an untimely grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burns' temper, 
increased as it often was by stimulating liquors, 
might lead him into many improper and un- 
guarded expressions, there seems no reason 
to doubt of his attachment to our mixed form 
of government. In his common-place book, 
where he could have no temptation to disguise, 
are the following sentiments: — '' Whatever 
might be my sentiments of republics, ancient 
or modern, as to Britain. I ever abjured the 
idea. A constitution, which in its original 
principles, experience has proved to be every 
way fitted for our happiness, it would be insan- 
ity to abandon for an untried visionary theory." 
In conformity to these sentiments, when the 
pressing nature of public afiairs called, in 1795, 
for a general arming of the people, Burns ap- 
peared in the ranks of ihe Dumfries volunteers, 
and employed his poetical talents in stimulating 
their patriotism ;* and at this season of alarm, 
he brought forward a hymn t worthy of the 
Grecian muse, when Greece was most conspic- 
uous for genius and valor. 

Though by nature of an athletic form. Burns 
had in his constitution the peculiarities and deli- 
cacies that belong to the temperament of genius. 
He was liable, from a very eraly period of life, 
to that interruption in the process of digestion, 
which arises from deep and anxious thought, 
and which is sometimes the efiect and some- 
times the cause of depression of spirits. Con- 
nected with this disorder of the stomach, there 
was a disposition to head-ache, afiecting more 
especially the temples and eye-balls, and fre- 
quently accompanied by violent and irregular 
movements of the heart. Endowed by nature 
with great sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in 
his corporeal, as well as in his mental system, 
liable to inordinate impressions; to fever of bo- 
dy as well as of mind. This predisposition to 
disease, which with strict temperance in diet, 
regular exercise, and sound sleep, might have 

* See poem entitled The Dvinfries Volunteers. 

fThe Song of Death. Poems, p. 62. This poem 
was wr tten in IT'jl. It was primed in Jolmsov's 
jyivsical Jilvsevvi. The poet had an intention, in the 
latter part of his life, of printinc it separately, set 
to music, 1 ut wiis advistd against it, or at least dis- 
couraged from it. 1 he niaitial ardoi which rose so 
liigli afterwaid.s, on the threatened invasion, had 
not ilien accjuired tlie tone necessary to give popu- 
larity to this noble poem; which, to the Editor, 
seem.'* more calculated to invigorate the spirit of 
defence, in a season of real and pressing danger, 
than any production of modern times. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



199 



subdued, habits of a very different nature 
strengthened and inflamed. Perpetually stim- 
ulated by alcohol in one or other of its various 
forms, the inordinate actions of the circulating 
system became at length habitual ; the process 
of nutrition was unable to support the waste, 
and the powers of life began to fail. Upwards 
of a year before his death, there was an evident 
decline in our poet's personal appearance, and 
though his appetite continued unimpaired, he 
was himself sensible that his constitution was 
sinking. In his moments of thought he reflect- 
ed with the deepest regret on his fatal progress, 
clearly foreseeing the goal towards which he 
was hastening, without the strength of mind 
necessary to stop, or even to slacken his course. 
His temper now became more irritable and 
gloomy ; he fled from himself into society, 
often of the lowest kind. And in such compa- 
ny, that part of the convivial scene, in which 
wine increases sensibility and excites benevo- 
lence, was hurried over, to reach the succeeding 
part, over which uncontrolled passion generally 
presided. He who suffers the pollution of ine- 
briation, how shall he escape other pollution ? 
But let us refrain from the mention of errors 
over which delicacy and humanity draw the vail. 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns 
met nothing in his domestic circle but gentle- 
ness and forgiveness, except in the gnawings of 
his own remorse. He acknowledged his trans- 
gressions to the wife of his bosom, promised 
amendment, and again and again received par- 
don for his offences. But as the strength of 
his body decayed, his resolution became feebler, 
and habit acquired predominating strength. 

From October, 1795, to the January follow- 
ing, an accidental complaint confined him to his 
house. A few days after he began to go 
abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned 
home about three o'clock in a very cold morn- 
ing, benumbed and intoxicated. This was fol- 
lowed by an attack of rheumatism, which con- 
fined him about a week. His appetite now 
began to fail ; his hand shook, and his voice 
faltered on any exertiorv or emotion. His pulse 
became weaker and more rapid, and pain in the 
larger joints, and in the hands and feet, depriv- 
ed him of the enjoyment of refreshing sleep. 
Too much dejected in his spirits, and too well 
aware of his real situation to entertain hopes 
of recovery, he was ever musing on the ap- 
proaching desolation of his family, and his spi- 
rits sunk into a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that if 
he could live through the months of spring, the 
succeeding season might restore him. But 
they were disappointed. The genial beams of 
the sun infused no vigor into his languid 
frame: the summer wind blew upon him, but 
produced no refreshment. About the latter end 
of June he was advised to go into the country, 
and impatient of medical advice, as well as 
of every species of control, he determined for 
himself to try the effects of bathing in the sea. 
For this purpose he took up his residence at 
Brow, in Annandale, about ten miles east of 
Dumfries, on the shore of the Solway-Firih. 

It happened that at that time a lady with whom 
he had been connected in friendship by the 
sympathies of kindred genius, was residing in 
the immediate neighborhood.* Being informed 
•Fora character of this lady, see letter, No. CXXIX. 



of his arrival, she invited him to dinner, and 
sent her carriage for him to the cottage where 
he lodged, as he was unable to walk. — " I was 
struck," says this lady (in a confidential letter 
to a friend written soon after,) " with his appear- 
ance on entering the room. The stamp of death 
was imprinted on his features. He seemed al- 
ready touching the brink of eternity. His first 
salutation was, ' Well, Madam, have you any 
commands for the other world ?' I replied, that 
it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be 
there soonest, and that 1 hoped he would yet 
live to write my epitaph. (I was then in a bad 
state of health.) He looked in my face with an 
air of great kindness, and expressed his con- 
cern at seeing: me look so ill, with his accus- 
tomed sensibility. At table he ate little or noth- 
ing, and he complained of having lost the tone 
of his stomach. We had a long and serious 
conversation about his present situation, and the 
approaching termination of all his earthly pros- 
pects. He spoke of his death without any of the 
ostentation of philosophy, but with firmness as 
well as feeling, as an event likely to happen 
very soon ; and which gave him concern chiefly 
from leaving his four children so young and un- 
protected, and his wife in so interesting a situa- 
tion — in hourly expectation of lying in of a fifth. 
He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfac- 
tion, the promising genius of fiis eldest son, and 
the flattering marks of approbation he had re- 
ceived from his teachers, and dwelt particularly 
on his hopes of that boy's future conduct and 
merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to 
hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps 
from the reflection that he had not done them 
all the justice he was so well qualified to do. 
Passing from this subject, he showed great con- 
cern about the care of his literary fame, and 
particularly the publication of his posthumous 
works. He said that he was well aware that 
his death would occasion some little noise, and 
that every scrap of his writing would be revived 
against him to the injury of his future reputa- 
tion ; that letters and verses written with un- 
guarded and improper freedom, and which he 
earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, 
would be handed about by idle vanity or mal- 
evolence, when no dread of his resentment would 
restrain them, or prevent the censures of shrill- 
tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of en- 
vy, from pouring forth all their venom to blast 
his fame. 

" He lamented that he had w^ritten many ep- 
igrams on persons against whom he entertained 
no enmity, and whose characters he would be 
sorry to wound ; and many indifferent poetical 
pieces, which he feared would now, with all 
their imperfections on their head, be thrtist up- 
on the world. On this account he deeply re- 
gretted having deferred to put his papers in a 
state of arrangement, as he was now quite inca- 
pable of the exertion." — The lady goes on to 
mention many other topics of a private nature 
on which he spoke. — " The conversation," she 
adds, "was kept up with great evenness and 
animation on his side. I had seldom seen his 
mind greater or more collected. There was 
frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in 
his sallies, and ihey would probably have had 
a greater share, had not the concern and dejec- 
tion I could not disguise, damped the spirit of 
pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to induljjb. 



200 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



" We parted about sunset on the evening of 
that day (the 5th July, 1796 ;) the next day I 
saw him again, and we parted to meet no 
more !" 

At first Burns imagined bathing in the sea had 
been of benefit to him : the pains in his limbs 
were relieved ; but this was immediately fol- 
lowed by a new attack of fever. When brought 
back to his own house in Dumfries, on the 18ih 
of July, he was no longer able to stand upright. 
At this time a tremor pervaded his frame: his 
tongue was parched, and his mind sunk into 
delirium, when not roused by conversation. 
On the second and third day the fever increas- 
ed, and his strength diminished. On the fourth 
the sufferings of this great but ill-fated genius 
were terminated i and a life was closed in which 
virtue and passion had been at perpetual va- 
riance.* 

The death of Burns made a strong and gen- 
eral impression on all who had interested them- 
selves in his character, and especially on the 
inhabitants of the town and county in which he 
had spent the latter years of his life. Flagrant 
as his follies and errors had been, they had not 
deprived him of the respect and regard enter- 
tained for the extraordinary powers of his gen- 
ius, and the generous qualities of his heart. The 
Gentleman- Volunteers of Dumfries determined 
to bury their illustrious associate with military 
honors, and every preparation was made to ren- 
der this last service solemn and impressive. The 
Fencible Infantry of Angusshire, and the regi- 
ment of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, at that 
time quartered in Dumfries, offered their as- 
sistance on this occasion ; the principal inhabi- 
tants of the town and neighborhood determined 
to walk in the funeral procession ; and a vast 
concourse of persons assembled, some of them 
from a considerable distance, to witness the ob- 
sequies of the Scottish Bard. On the evening 
of the 25ih of July, the remains of Burns were 
removed from his house to the Town- Hall, and 
the funeral took place on the succeeding day. 
A party of the volunteers, selected to perform 
the military duty in the church-yard, stationed 
themselves in the front of the procession, with 
their arms reversed; the main body of the corps 
surrounded and supported the coffin, on which 
were placed the hat and sword of their friend 
and fellow-soldier ; the numerous body of at- 
tendants ranged themselves in the rear ; while 
the Fencible regiments of infantry und cavalry 
lined the streets from the Town-Hall to the bur- 
ial ground in the Southern church-yard, a dis- 
tance of more than half a mile. The whole 
procession moved forward to that sublime and 
affecting strain of music, the Dead March in 
Saul ; and three volleys fired over his grave, 
marked the return of Burns to his parent earth I 
The spectacle was in a high degree grand and 
solemn, and accorded with the general sentiments 
of sympathy and sorrow which the occasion had 
called forth. 

It was anaflecting circumstance, that, on the 
morning of the day of her husband's funeral, 
Mrs. Burns was undergoing the pains of labor ; 
and that during the solemn service we have just 
been describing, the posthumous son of our poet 
was born. This infant boy, who received the 

*The particulars respertiii? the illness and death 
of Burns were obligingly fiirnislicd by Dr. Maxwell, 
the physician who aiiended him. 



name of Maxwell, was not destined to a long 
life. He has already become an inhabitant of 
the same grave with his celebrated father. The 
four other children of our poet, all sons, (the 
eldest at that time about ten years of age) yet 
survive, and give every promise of prudence and 
virtue that can be expected from their tender 
years. They remain under the care of their 
affectionate mother in Dumfries, and are enjoy- 
ing the means of education which the excellent 
schools ofthat town afford; the teachers of which, 
in their conduct to the children of Burns, do 
themselves great honor. On this occasion the 
name of Mr. Wythe deserves to be particularly 
mentioned, himself a poet, as well as a man of 
science.* 

Burns died in great poverty ; but the inde- 
pendence of his spirit and the exemplary pru- 
dence of his wife, had preserved him from debt. 
He had received from his poems a clear profit 
of about nine hundred pounds. Of this sum, 
the part expended on his library (which was 
far from extensive) and in the humble furniture 
of his house, remained ; and obligations were 
found for two hundred pounds advanced by him 
to the assistance of those to whom he was uni- 
ted by the ties of blood, and still more by those 
of esteem and affection. When it is considered 
that his expenses in Edinburgh, and on his va- 
rious journeys, could not be inconsiderable; that 
his agricultural undertaking was unsuccessful; 
that his income from the excise was for some 
time as low as fifty, and never arose to above sev- 
enty pounds a-year ; that his family was large, 
and his spirit liberal — no one will be surprised 
that his circumstances were so poor, or that as 
his health decayed his proud and feeling heart 
sunk under the secret consciousness of indigence 
and the apprehensions of absolute want. Yet 
poverty never bent the spirit of Burns to any pe- 
cuniary meanness. Neitlier chicanery nor sordid- 
ness ever appeared in his conduct. He earned 
his disregard of money to a blamable excess. 
Even in the midst of "distress he bore himself 
lofiily to the world, and received with jealous re 
luctance every offer of friendly at;sK-.iance. Hia 
printed poems had procured him great celebrity, 
and a just and fair recompense for the latter off- 
springs of his pen might have produced him 
considerable emolument. In the year 1795, the 
Editor of a London newspaper, high in its char- 
acter for literature, and independence of senti- 
ment, made a proposal to him that he should fur- 
nish them, once a week, with an ariicle for their 
poetical department, and receive from them a 
recompense of fifty-two guineas per annum ; an 
offer which the pride of genius refiised to accept. 
Yet he had for several years furnished, and was 
at that time furnishing, the iliwsej/wi of Johnson 
with his beautifid lyrics, without fee or I'eward, 
and was obstinately refusing all recompense for 
his assistance to the greater work of Mr. Thom- 
son, which the justice and generosity of that 
gentleman was pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the ap- 
proaching distress of his infant family, pressed 
heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed of death. 
Yet he alluded to his indigence, at limes, with 
something approaching to his wonted gayety. 
" What business," said he to Dr. Maxwell, 
who attended him with the utmost zeal, " has 

♦ Author of " »St. Gu( rdon's Well," a poem; and 
of -'A tribute to the iMeinory (tf Burns." 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



201 



a physician to waste his time on me ? 1 am a 
poor pigeon, not worth plucking. Alas ! I 
have not feathers enough upon me to carry me 
to my grave." And when his reason was lost 
in delirium, hi.s ideas ran in the same melancho- 
ly train ; the horrors of a jail were continually 
present to his troubled imagination, and pro- 
duced the most atl'ecting exclamations. 

As for some months previous to his death he 
had been incapable of the duties of his office, 
Burns dreaded that his salary should be reduc- 
ed one half, as is usual in such cases. His full 
emoluments were, however, continued to him 
by the kindness of Mr. Stobbie, a young ex- 
pectant in the Excise, who performed the du- 
ties of his office without fee or reward ; and Mr. 
Graham, of Finlry, hearing of hisillness, though 
unacquainted with its dangerous nature, made 
an offer of his assistance towards procuring 
him the means of preserving his health. What- 
ever might be the faults of Burns, ingratitude 
was not of the number. Amongst his manu- 
scripts, various proofs are found of the sense he 
entertained of Mr Ciraham's friendship, which 
delicacy towards that gentleman has induced 
us to suppress ; and on this last occasion, there 
is no doubt that his heart overflovved towards 
him, though he had no longer the power of ex- 
pressing his feelings.* 

On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of 
Dumfries and its neighborhood opened a sub- 
scription for the support of his wite and fami- 
ly ; and Mr. Miller, Mr. M'Mnrdo, Dr. Max- 
well, Mr. Syme, and Mr. Cunningham, gen- 
tlemen of the first respectability, became trus- 
tees for the application of the money to its pro- 
per objects, 'rhe subscription was extended to 
other parts of Scotland, and of England also, 
particularly London and Liverpool. By this 
means a sum was raised amounting to seven 
hundred pounds ; and thus the widow and chil- 
dren were rescued from immediate distress, and 
the most melancholy of the forebodings of Burns 
happily disappointed. It is true, this sum, though 
equal to their present support, is insufficient to 
secure tliem from future penury, Their hope 
in regard to futurity depends on the favorable 
reception of these volumes from the public at 
large, in the promoting of which the candor 
and humanity of the reader may induce him to 
lend his assistance. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, was 
nearly five feet ten inches in height, and of a 
form that indicated agility as well as strength. 
His well-raised forehead, shaded with black 
curling hair, indicated extensive capacity. 
His eyes were large, dark, fall of ardor and 
intelligence. His face was well-formed ; and 
his countenance uncommonly interesting and 
expressive. His mode of dressing, which was 
often slovenly, and a certain fullness and bend 
in his shoulders, characteristic of his original 
profession, disguised in some degree the natur- 
al symmetry and external elegance of his form. 
'^I'he external appearance of Burns was most 
strikingly indicative of the character of his 
mind. On a first view, his physiognomy had 
a certain air of coarseness, mingled, however, 
with an expression of deep penetration, and of 

* The letter of Mr. Graham, alluded to above, is 
dated on the i;3t]i of .July, and prnhably arrived on 
the l.oih. Burn? became delnious on tlie ITlh or Irth, 
and died on the 21st. 



calm thoughtfulness, approaching to melancho- 
ly. There appeared in his first manner and 
address, perfect ease and self-possession, but a 
stern and almost supercilious elevation, not, in- 
deed, incompatible with openness and affability, 
which, however, bespoke a mind conscious of 
superior talents. Strangers that supposed them- 
selves approaching an Ayrshire peasant who 
could make rhymes, and to whom their notice 
was an honor, found themselves speedily over- 
awed by the presence of a man who bore him- 
self with dignity, and who possessed a singu- 
lar power of correcting forwardness, and of re- 
pelling intrusion. But though jealous of the 
respect due to himself, Burns never enforced 
it where he saw it was willingly paid ; and, 
though inaccessible to the approaches of pride, 
he was open to every advance of kindness and 
ot benevolence. His dark and haughty coun- 
tenance easily relaxed into a look of good-will, 
of pity, or of tenderness; and, as the various 
emotions succeeded each other in his mind, 
he assumed with equal ease the expression 
of the broadest humor, of the most extravagant 
mirth, of the deepest melancholy, or of the 
most sublime emoiion. The tones of his voice 
happily corresponded with the expression of his 
features, and with the feelings of his mind. 
When to these endowments are added a rapid 
and distinct apprehension, a most powerful un- 
derstanding, and a happy command of lan- 
guage — of strength as well as brilliancy of ex- 
pression — we shall be able to account for the 
extraordinary attractions of his conversation — 
for the sorcery which, in his social parties, he 
seemed to exert on all around him. In the 
company of women this sorcery was more es- 
pecially apparent. I'heir presence charmed the 
tiend of melancholy in his bosom, and awoke 
his happiest feelings ; it excited the powers of 
his fancy, as well as the tenderness of his heart ; 
and, by restraining the vehemence and the ex- 
uberance of his language, at times gave to his 
manners the impression of tasie, and even of 
elegance, which, in the company of men, they 
seldom possessed. A Scottish lady, accus- 
tomed to the best society, declared, with char- 
acteristic naivete, that no man's conversation 
ever curried her so completely off her feet as that 
of Burns; and an English lady, familiarly ac- 
quainted with several of the most distinguished 
characters of the present times, assured the 
Editor, that in the happiest of his social hours, 
there was a charm about Burns which she had 
never seen equalled. This charm arose not 
more from the power than the versatility of 
his genius. No languor could be felt in the so- 
ciety of a man who passed at pleasure from 
grave to gay, from the ludicrous to the pathet- 
ic, from the simple to the sublime ; who wield- 
ed all his faculties with equal strength and ease, 
and never failed to impress the offspring of his 
fancy with the stamp of his understanding. 

This indeed is to represent Burns in his hap- 
piest phasis. In large and mixed parties he 
was often silent and dark, and sometimes fierce 
and overbearing ; he was jealous of the proud 
man's scorn, jealous to an extreme of the inso 
lence of wealth, and prone to avenge, even on 
its innocent possessor, tJie partiality of fortune. 
By nature kind, brave, sincere, and in a singu- 
lar degree compassionate, he was on the other 
hand proud, irrascible, and vindictive. His 



202 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



virtues and his failings had their origin in the 
extraordinary sensibility of his mind, and 
equally partook of the chilis and glows of sei;ti- 
ment. His friendships were liable to interrup- 
tion from jealousy or disgust, and his enmities 
died away under the inHuence of pity or self- 
accusation. His understanding was equal to 
the other powers of his mind, and his deliber- 
ate opinions were singularly candid and just; 
but, like other men of great and irregular ge- 
nius, the opinions which he delivered in con- 
versation were often the offspring of temporary 
feelings, and widely different from the calm de- 
cisions of his judgment. This was not mere- 
ly true respecting the characters of others, but 
in regard to some of the most important points 
of human speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking 
proof of the strength of his understanding, than 
in the correct estimate he formed of himself. 
He knew his own failings ; he predicted their 
consequence ; the melancholy foreboding was 
never long absent from his mind ; yet his pas- 
sions earned him down the stream of error, 
and swept him over the precipice he saw direct- 
ly in his course. The fatal defect in his char- 
acter lay in the comparative weakness of his 
volition, that superior faculty of the mind, 
which governing the conduct according to the 
dictates of the understanding, alone entitles it 
to be denominated rational; which is the pa- 
rent of fortitude, patience, and self-denial; 
which, by regulating and combining human ex- 
ertions, may be said to have effected all that is 
great in the works of man, in literature, in sci- 
ence, or on the face of nature. The occupa- 
tions of a poet are not calculated to strengthen 
the governing powers of the mind, or to weak- 
en that sensibility which requires perpetual con- 
trol, since it gives birth to the vehemence of 
passion as well as to the higher powers of im- 
agination. Unfortunately the favorite occupa- 
tions of genius are calculated to increase all its 
peculiarities; to nourish that lofty pride which 
disdains the littleness of prudence, and the re- 
strictions of order: and by indulgence, to in- 
crease that sensibility which, in the present 
form of our existence, is scarcely compatible 
■with peace or happiness, even when accompa- 
'-'"d with the choicest gifts of fortune ! 

'~^ observed by one who was a friend and 
fdi ; of Burns.* and who has contemplated 
'■!■ plained th-^ system of animated nature, 
? antieni being with mental powers great- 
^.e:.jr to those of men, could possibly live 
je happy in this world — " If such a being 
- y existed," contii"!ues he, *' his misery would 
be extreme. With senses more delicate and re- 
refined ; with perceptions more acute and pen- 
etrating ; with a taste so exquisite that the ob- 
jects around him would by no means gratify it ; 
obliged to feed on nourishment too gross for h-s 
frame ; he must be born only to be miserable ; 
and the continuation of his existence would be 
utterly impossible. Even in our present condi- 
tion, the sameness and the insipidity of objects 
and pursuits, the futility of pleasure, and the 
infinite sources of excruciating pain, are sup- 
ported with great difficulty by cultivated and re- 
fined minds. Increase our sensibilities, con- 
tinue the same objects and situation, and no man 
could bear to leave." 
* Smellie.— See hi3 " Thilosophy of Natural History." 



Thus it appears, that our powers of sensation 
as well as all our other powers, are adapted to 
the scene of our existence ; that they are limit- 
ed in mercy, as well as in wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smeliie are not to be 
considered as the dreams of a theorist; they 
were probably founded on sad experience. The 
being he supposes, " with senses more delicate 
and refined, with perceptions more acute and 
penetrating," is to be found in real life. He is 
of the temperament of genius, and perhaps a 
poet. Is there, then, no remedy for this inordi- 
nate sensibility ? Are there no means by which 
the happiness of one so constituted by nature 
may be consulted ? Perhaps it will be found, 
that regular and constant occupation, irksome 
though it may at first be, is the true remedy. 
Occupation in which the powers of the under- 
standing are exercised, will diminish the force 
of external impressions, and keep the imagina- 
tion under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should be 
followed in his education and in his destination 
in life, is a maxim which has been often repeat- 
ed, but which cannot be admitted, without many 
restrictions. It may be generally true when ap- 
plied to weak minds, which being capable of 
little, must be encouraged and strengthened in 
ihe feeble impulses by which that little is pro- 
duced. But where indulgent nature has bestow- 
ed her gifts with a liberal hand, the very reverse 
of this maxim ought iVequently to be the rule of 
conduct. In minds of a higher order, the object 
of instruction and of discipline is very often to 
restrain, rather than to impel ; to curb the im- 
pulses of imagination, so that the passions also 
may be kept under control.* 

Hence the advantages, even in a moral point 
of view, of studies of a severer nature, which 
while they inform the understanding, employ 
the volition, that regulating power of the mind, 
which, like all our other faculties, is strength- 
ened by eaercise. and on the superiority of wliich 
virtue, happiness, and honorable fame, are whol- 
ly dependant. Hence also the advantage of 
regular and constant application, which aids the 
voluntary power by the production of habits so 
necessary to the support of order and virtue, 
and so difficult to be formed in the temperament 
of genius. 

'1 he man who is so endowed and so regulated, 
may pursue his course with confidence in almost 
any of the various walks of lite which choice or 
accident shall open to him ; and, provided he 
employs the talents he has cultivated, may hope 
for such imperfect happiness, and such limited 
success, as are reasonably to be expected from 
human exertions. 

l"he pre-eminence amoqg men. which pro- 

* Quinciillian disrusses the important question, 
whether the l)ent of the iiidividtials gen us should be 
followed in his education (a?* seruvdum svi quisque 
inirenii docendiis si/ vaturam,) chieliy. indeed, will) a 
reference to the orator, but in a w;iy that adiniis of 
very general application. His conclusions coincide 
very much wiili those of the te.\t. " An verolsocra- 
tes cum de Eplioro aique Tin opomi o sic judicaiet, 
ut altei i fren sis, alter i calcurihus opus esse dice/et; aut 
in illo lentiore tardilatem. ant in iljo penc prsecipiii 
concitationetn adjuvandum docemlo existiniavii 1 
cum allerum allerius naturaniiscendem arbiiraretur. 
Imbeciilis tamen ingeniissane sic ol)srqueiiduni, sit, 
nt tanmm in id quo vocat natura, ducaniur. Itaen- 
im, quod solum possuiit, ruilius efficieiu " — Inst Or- 
ator. Lib. ii. 9. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



203 



cures personal respect, and which terminates in 
lasting reputaiion, is seldom or never obtained 
by the excellence of a single iaculty of mind. 
Experience teaches us, that it has been acquir- 
ed by those only who have possessed the com- 
prehension and the energy of general talents, 
and who have regulated their application, in the 
line which choice, or perhaps accident, may 
have determined, by the dictates of their judg- 
ment. Imagination is supposed, and with jus- 
tice, to be the leading faculty oi the poet. But 
what poet has stood the test of lime by the 
force of this single faculty ? Who does not see 
that Homer and Shakspeare excelled the rest of 
their species in understanding as well as in im- 
agination ; that they were pre-eminent in the 
highest species of knowledge — the knowledge 
of the nature and character of man ? On the 
other hand, the talent of ratiocination is more 
esp'?cially requisite to the orator ; but no man 
ever obtained the palm of oratory, even by the 
highest excellence in this single talent. Who 
does not perceive that Demosthenes and Cicero 
were not more happy in their addresses to the 
reason, than in their appeals to the passions ? 
They knew, that to excite, to agitate, and to 
delight, are among the most potent arts of per- 
suasion ; and they entorced their impression on 
the understanding, by their command of all the 
sympathies of the heart. These observations 
might be extended to other walks of life, fie 
who has the faculties fitted to excel in poetry, 
has the faculties which, duly governed, and dif- 
ferently directed, might lead to pre-eminence in 
other, and, as far as respects himself, perhaps in 
happier destinations, 'f'he talents necessary to 
the construction of an Iliad, under different dis- 
cipline and application, might have led armies 
to victory, or kingdoms to prosperity ; min;ht 
have wielded the thunder of eloquence, or dis- 
covered and enlarged the sciences that consti- 
tute the power and improve the condition ot our 
species.* Such talents are, indeed, rare among 

*The reader must not suppose it is contended that 
the same individual could have excelled in all these 
directions. A certain degree of instruction and prac- 
tice are necessary to excellence in every one, and 
life is 100 short to admit of one man, however great 
his talents, acquiring this in all of them. It is only 
asserted, that the same talents, differently applied, 
might have succeeded in any ove, though, perhaps, 
not equally well in each. And, after all, this posi- 
tion requires certain limitations, which the reader's 
candor and judgment will supply. In suppo.sing that 
a great poet might have niade a great orator, tlie 
physical qualities necessary to oratory are presup- 
posed. In supposing that a great orator might have 
made a great poet, it is a necessary condition, that 
lie should have devoted himself to poetry, and that 
he should have acqiured a proficiency in metrical 
numbers, which by patience and attention may be 
acquired, though the want of it has embarrassed and 
chilled many of the tirst efforts of true poetical ge- 
nius. In supposing that Homer might have led ar- 
mies to victory, more indeed is assumed than the 
physical qualities of a general. To these must be ad- 
ded that hardihood of mind, that coolness in the mid>t 
of difficulty and danger, which great poets and ora- 
tors are found sometimes, but not always, to possess. 
Th'i nature of the institutions of Greece and Rome 
produced more instances of single individuals who 
excelled in various departments of active and specu- 
lative life, than occur in modern Europe, where the 
employments of men are more subdivided. Miiny 
of the greatest warriors of antiquity excelled in lit- 
erature and oratory. That they had the vnnds of 
great poets also, will be admitted, when the quali- 
ties arc justly appreciated wliich are necessary to 



the productions of nature, and occasions of bring- 
ing them into full exertion are rarer still. IJut 
sate and salutary occupations may be found 
tor men of genius in every direction, while the 
useful and ornamental arts remain to be culti- 
vated, while the sciences remain to be studied 
and to be extended, and princijjles of science 
to be applied to the correction and improvement 
of art. In the temperament of sensibility, 
which is in truth the temperament of general 
talents, the principal object ol discipline and 
instruction is, as has already been mentioned, 
to strengthen the self-command; and this may 
be promoted by the direction of the studies, 
more eflectually perhaps than has been gener- 
ally understood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, 
they may lead to practical consequences of 
some importance. It has been too much the 
custom to consider the possession of poetical 
talents as excluding the possibility of applica- 
tion to the severer branches of study, and as 
in some degree incapacitating the possessor 
from attaining those habits, and from bestow- 

excite, combine, and command tlie active energies 
of a great body of men, to rouse that enthusiasm 
which sustains fatigue, hunger, and the inclemen- 
cies of the elements, and which triumphs over the 
fear of death, the most powerful instinct of our na- 
ture. 

The authority of Cicero may be appealed to in fa- 
vor of the close connection between the j.oetandthe 
orator. Est enim finilivius oiaiori ])oe:a, numeris ad- 
strictior puulo, verbvrum ttutem liceiitia liberior, <^c. 
L»e Oratore, Lib. i. c. 10. See also Lib lii. c. 7. It 
is true the example of Cicero may be quoied against 
his opinion. His attempts m verse, which are 
praised by Plutarch, do not seem to have met the 
approbation of Juvenal, or of some others. Cicero 
probably did not take sufficient time to learn the art 
of the poet ; but that he had the afflatus necessary 
to poetical excellence, may be abundantly proved 
from his compositions in prose. On the other hand, 
nothing is nioie clear, than that, in the character of 
a great poet, all the mental qualities of an orator 
are included. It is said by Quinct.ll an, of Homer, 
Omnibus tluquentia; partibtis ezeviplvJn et ortum cledit. 
Lib. i. 47. The study of Homer is therefore recom- 
mended to the orator, as of the tirst importance. Of 
the two sublime poets in our own language, who are 
hardly inferior to Homer, Shakspeare and Milton, a 
similar recommendation may be given. It is scarce- 
ly necessary to mention how much an acquaintance 
with them has availetl tlie great oraior wjio is now 
the pride and ornament of the English bar, a char- 
actei that may be appealed to with singular propri- 
ety, when we are contendiiig for the universality 
of genius. 

The identity, or at least the great similarity, of 
the talents necessary to excellence in poetry, oratory, 
painting, and war, will be admitted by some, who 
will be inclined to dispute the extension of the po- 
sition to science or natural knowledge. On this oc- 
casion 1 may (juole the lollowing observations of 
Sir William Jones, whose own example will, how- 
ever, far exteed in wei^ght tho anthoriiy of his pre- 
cepts. "Abul Ola had so flourishing a reputation, 
that several persons of uncommon genius were am- 
bitious of learning the art of poetrij from so able an 
instructor. His most illustrious scholars were Fele- 
ki and Khakani, who were no less eminent for their 
Persian compositions, than for their skill in every 
branch of pure and mixed mathematics, and partic- 
ularly in astronomy ; a striking proof that a sublime 
poet may become master of any kind ol learning 
which he chooses to profess; since a fine imagina- 
tion, a lively wit. an easy and copious style, cannot 
possibly obstiuct the acquisition of any science 
whatever; but must necessarily assist hini in his 
studies, and shorten his labor." Sir H'llliam Jvnes^ 
Vl'uiki, vvl. a. p. 317. 



204 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



ing that attention, which are necessary to suc- 
cess in the details of business, and in the en- 
gagements of active \ik. It has been common 
lor persons conscious of such talents, to look 
with a sort ot disdain on other kinds of intel- 
lectual excellence, and to consider themselves 
as in some degree absolved from those rules of 
prudence by which humbler minds are restrict- 
ed. They are too much disposed to abandon 
themselves to iheir own sensations, and to suf- 
fer life to pass avvay without regular exertion or 
settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally prone 
to indolence, with them indolence and unhappi- 
ness are in a more especial manner allied. 'Ihe 
. unbidden splendors oi imagination may indeed at 
times irradiate the gloom which inactivity pro- 
duces; but such visions, though bright; are tran- 
sient, and serve to cast the realities of life into 
deeper shade. In bestowing great talents, Na- 
ture seems very generally to have imposed on 
the possessor the necessiiy of exertion, if he 
would escape wretchedness. Better for him 
than sloth, toils the most painful, or adventures 
the most hazardous. Happier to him than idle- 
ness, were the condition of the peasant, earn- 
ing with incessant labor his scanty food ; or 
that of the sailor, though hanging on the yard- 
arm, and wrestling with the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illustrat- 
ed by the biography of men of genius of every 
denomination, and mote especially by the biog- 
raphy of the poets. Of this last description of 
men, few seem to have etij(jyed the usual por- 
tion of happiness that falls to the lot of human- 
ity, those excepted who have cultivated poetry 
as an elegant amusement in the hours of relax- 
ation from other occupations, or the small num- 
ber who have engaged wiih success in the 
greater or more arduous attempts of the muse, 
in which all the faculties of the mind have been 
fully and permanently employed. Even taste, 
virtue, and comparaiive independence, do not 
seem capable of bestowing on men of genius, 
peace and tranquillity, without such occupation 
as may give regular and healthful exercise to 
the faculties of the body and mind. The amia- 
ble Shenstone has left us the records of his im- 
prudence, of his indolence, and of his unhap- 
piness, amidst the shades of the Leasowes ;* 
and the virtues, the learning, and the genius 
of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempts of the 
epicmuse, tailed to procure him, in the academic 
bowers of Cambridge, that tranquillity and that 
respect which less fastidiousness of taste, and 
greater constancy and vigor of exertion, would 
have doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius 
should be aware of the importance of self-com- 
mand, and of exertion, because their indolence 
is peculiarly exposed, not merely to unhappi- 
iiess, but to diseases of mind, and to errors of 
conduct, which are generally fatal. This inter- 
esting subject deserves a particular investiga- 
tion ; but we must content ourselves with one 
or two cursory remarks. Relief is sometimes 
sought from the melancholy of indolence in 
practices, which for a time soothe and gratify 
the sensations, but which in the end involve the 
sufferer in darker gloom. To command the ex- 
ternal circumstances by which happiness is af- 
* See his Letters, which, as n display of the effects 
of poetxal idleness; are hiphlv iiisiruclive. 



fected, is not in huinan power, but there are 
various substances in nature which operate on 
the system of the nerves, so as to give a ficti- 
tious gayety to the ideas of imagination, and to 
alter the effect of the external impressions which 
we receive. Opium is chiefly employed for 
this purpose by the disciples of Mahomet and 
the inhabitants of Asia: but alcohol, the prin- 
ciple of intoxication in vinous and spiriiuous 
liquors, is preferred in Europe, and is univer- 
sally used in the Christian world.* Under the 
various wounds to which indolent sensibility is 
exposed, and under the gloomy apprehensions 
respecting futurity to which it is so often a prey, 
how strong is the temptation to have recourse 
to an antidote by which the pain of these 
wounds is suspended, by which the heart is 
exhilarated, visions of happiness are excited in 
the mind, and the forms of external nature 
clothed with new beauty I 

"Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy liuoys the lighten'd soul, 
And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care ; 
And what was diffitull, smd what was dre, 
Vields to your prow ess, and superior stars : 
The happiest )ou of all that e'er wire mad, 
Or arc, or shall he, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloom 
Shuts o'er your head 

Morning comes ; your cares return 

With ten-fold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endured ; .so may the throbbing head : 
But such a dun delirium ; such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as madd'ning I'enthens felt, 
When, baited round Lithseron's cruel sides. 
He saw two suns and double 'J hebes ascend." 
Armslroiig's Art of Preiervnig Bealtk. 

Such are the pleasures and the pains of in- 
toxication, as they occur in the temperament 
of sensibility, described by a genuine poet, 
with a degree of truth and energy which noth- 
ing but experience could have dictated. There 
are, indeed, some individuals of this tempera- 
ment, on whom wine produces no cheering 

* There are a great number of other substances, 
which may be considered under this point of view. 
Tobacco, tea, and coffee, are of the number. These 
sulistances essentially difler from each other in their 
qualities ; and an inquiry into the particular tfficts 
of each on the lieaitli, morals, and happiness of those 
who use them, would- be curious and useful. The 
effects of wine and opium on the temperament of 
sensibility, the editor intended to have discussed in 
this place at some length: bui he found the sulject too 
extensive and too professional to be introduced with 
propriety. The difficulty of abandoning any of these 
narcotics, (if we may so term them.) when inclina- 
tion is strengthened by habit, is well known. John- 
S'n, ill his distre.sses, had experienced the cheering 
but treacherous intlu( nee of wine, and by a power- 
ful efl'ort abandoned it. He was obliged, however, 
to use tea as a substitute, and this was the solace to 
which he cfinstantly had recourse under his haintu- 
al melanclioly. 'J he praises of wine form many of 
tlie most beautiful lyrics of the poets of Greece and 
Rome, and of modern Europe. Whether opium, 
which prodiues visions still more ecstaiic, has been 
the theme of the eastern poems, I do not know. 

Wine is drank in small quantities at a time, in 
company, where, fur a time, it promotes harmony 
and social affection. Opium is swallowtd by the 
Asiatics in full doses at once, and the inebriate re- 
tires to Ihe solitary indulgence of his delirious im 
agination. Hence the wine-drinker appears in a 
super or light to the imbiber of opium, a distinction 
which he owes more to ihcfoim than the quality of 
his liquor. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



205 



influence. On some, even in very moderate 
quantities, its effects are painfully irritating; 
in large draughts it excites dark and melancho- 
ly ideas; and in draughts still larger, the fierce- 
ness of insanity itself. Such men are happily 
exempted from a temptation, to which experi- 
ence teaches us the finest dispositions often 
yield, and the influence of which, when 
strengthened by habit, it is a humiliating truth, 
that the most powerful minds have not been 
able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius 
to be on their guard against the habitual use 
of wine, because it is apt to steal on them in- 
sensibly ; and because the temptation to excess 
usually presents iiself to them in their social 
hours, when they are alive only to warm and 
generous etnotions, and when prudence and 
moderation are often contemned as selfishness 
and timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to guard 
against excess in the use of wine, because on 
them its effects are, physically and morally, in 
an especial manner injurious. In proportion to 
its stimulating influence on the system, (on 
which the pleasurable sensations depend,) is 
the debility that ensues ; a debility that de- 
stroys digestion, and terminates in habitual 
fever, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. 
As the strength of the body decays, the voli- 
tion fails ; in proportion as the sensations are 
soothed and gratified, the sensibility increases ; 
and morbid sensibility is the parent of indo- 
lence, because, while it impairs the regulating 
power of the mind, it exaggerates all the ob- 
stacles to exertion. Activity, perseverance, 
and self-command, become more and more 
difficult, and the great purposes of utility, pa- 
triotism, or of honorable ambition, which had 
occupied the imagination, die away in fruitless 
resolutions, or in feeble efforts. 

To apply these observations to the subject of 
our memoirs, would be a useless as well as a 
painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we owe to 
the living, not to allow our admiration of ge- 
nius, or even our pity for its unhappy destiny, 
to conceal or disguise its errors. But there 
are sentiments of respect, and even of tender- 
ness, with which this duty should be perform- 
ed ; there is an awful sanctity which invests the 
mansions of the dead ; and let those who mor- 
alize over the graves of their contemporaries, 
reflect with humility on their own errors, nor 
forget how soon they may themselves require 
the candor and the sympathy they are called 
upon to bestow. 



Soon after the death of Burns, the following 
article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, from 
which it was copied into the Edinburgh news- 
papers, and into various other periodical publi- 
cations. It is from the elegant pen of a lady 
already alluded to in the course of these me- 
moirs,* whose exertions for the family of our 
bard, in the circles of literature and fashion in 
which she moves, have done her so much ho- 
nor. 

*' The attention of the public seems to be 
much occupied at present with the loss it has 
sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, 

See p. 199. 



Robert Burns; a loss calculated to be severely 
teh througlio it the literary vvorid, as well aa 
lamented in the narrower sphere of private 
friendship. Jl was not, iherfiore. probable, 
that such an event should be loiig uiiaueiidcd 
with the accustomed prolusion ol po>.iiiuinou3 
anecdotes and memoirs wiiich are usually cir- 
culated immediately alter the death of every 
rare and celebrated personage; 1 had, however, 
conceived no intention of appropriating to my- 
self the privilege of criticising Burns' writings 
and character, or of anticipating on the province 
of a biographer. 

"Conscious, indeed, of my own inability 
to do justice to such a subject, 1 should have 
continued wholly silent, hud misrepresentaiioa 
and calumny been less industrious ; but a re- 
gard to truth, no less than afliiciion to the 
memory of a friend, must now justify my 
oftering to the public a few at least of those 
observations which an intimate acquaintance 
with Burns, and the frequent opportunities I 
have had of observing equally his happy quali- 
ties and his failings for several years past, have 
enabled me to communicate. 

" It will actually be an injustice done to 
Burns' character, not only by future genera- 
tions and foreign countries, but even by his 
native Scotland, and perhaps a number of his 
coniemporaries, that he is generally talked of, 
and considered, with reference to his poetical 
talents only: for the fact is, even allowing; his 
great and original genius its due tribute of ad- 
miration, that poetry (1 appeal to all who have 
had the advantage of being personally acquaint- 
ed with him) was actually not \\\s forte. Ma- 
ny others, perhaps, may have ascended to 
prouder heights in the region of Farnai-sus, 
but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the 
charms — the sorcery, I would almost call it, of 
fascinating conversation, the spontaneous elo- 
quence of social argument, or the unstudied 
poignancy of brilliant repartee; nor was any 
man, 1 believe, ever gifted with a larger por- 
tion of the ' vivida vis animi.' His personal 
endowments were perfectly correspondent to 
the qualifications oi his mind ; his form was 
manly ; his action, energy itself; devoid in a 
great measure perhaps of those graces, of that 
polish, acquired only in the refinement of so- 
cieties where in early life he could have no op- 
portunities of mixing; but where such was the 
irresistible power of attraction that encircled 
him, though his appearance and manners were 
always peculiar, he never failed to delight and 
to excel, liis figure seemed to bear testimony 
of his earlier destination and employnienis. It 
seemed rather moulded by nature for the rough 
exercises of agriculture, than the gentler culti- 
vation of the Belles Leltres. fiis features 
were stamped with the hardy character of in- 
dependence, and the firmness of conscious, 
though not arrogant, pre-eminence ; tlie ani- 
mated expressions of countenance were almost 
peculiar to himself; the rapid lightnings of his 
eye were always the harbingers of some flash 
of genius, whether they darted the fiery glances 
of insulted and indignant superiority, or beam- 
ed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent 
and impetuous afi'ections. His voice alone 
could improve upon the magic of his eye : so- 
norous, replete with the finest modulations, it 
alternately captivated the car with the melody 



20G 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous 
reasoning, or the ardent sallies ot enthusiastic 
patriotism. The keenness of satire was, I am 
almost at a loss whether to say, his forte or his 
foible ; for though nature had endowed him with 
a portion of the most pointed excellence in that 
dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be 
the vehicle ot personal, and sometimes unfound- 
ed animosities. It was not always that sport- 
iveness of humor, that ' unwary pleasantry,' 
which Sterne has depicted with touches so 
conciliatory, but the darts of ridicule were fre- 
quently directed as the caprice of the instant 
suggested, or as the altercation of parties and 
ol persons happened to kindle the restlessness 
ot his spirit into interest or aversion. This, 
however, was not invariably the case ; his wit 
(which is no unusual matter indeed.) liad al- 
ways the start of his judgment, and would 
lead him to the indulgence ol raillery uniformly 
acute, but often unaccompanied wiih the least 
desire to wound. I'he suppression of an arch 
and tuU-pointed bon-niot, trom the dread of 
offending ns object, the sage of Zurich very 
properly classes as a virtue only to be sought for 
i?i the Caiejidar of Sainta ; if so. Burns must 
not be too severely dealt wiih lor being rather 
deficient m it. He paid for his mischievous 
wit as dearly as any one could do. *'T was 
no extravagant arithmetic,' to say of him, as 
was said ot Yorick, that ' for every ten jokes 
he got a hundred enemies :' but much allowance 
will be made by a candid mind tor the splenetic 
warmth of a spirit whom ' distress had spited 
•with the world,' and which, unbounded in its 
intellectual sallies and pursuits, continually ex- 
perienced curbs imposed by the waywardness 
of his lortune. The vivacity of his wishes and 
his temper was indeed checked by almost hab- 
itual disappointments, wbich sat heavy on a 
heart which acknowledged the ruling passion 
of independence, without ever having been 
placed beyond ihe grasp of penury. His soul 
was never languid or inactive, and hi.= genius vvas 
extinguished only with the last spark ol retreat- 
ing lite. His passions rendered bun, according 
as they disclosed themselves in affection or an- 
tipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, 
or ot decided enmity ; tor he possessed none of 
that negative insipidity of character, whose 
resentment could be considered with contempt. 
In this, it shuuld seem, the temper of his asso- 
ciates took the tincture from his own ; tor he 
acknowledged in the universe but two classes 
oi objects, those of adoration the most fervent, 
or of aversion the most uncontrollable ; and it 
has been trequently a reproach to him, that, un- 
Buscepiible of indifference, often hating where 
he ought only to have despised, he alternately 
opened his heart and poured forth the treasures 
of his understanding to such as were incapable 
of appreciating the homage ; and elevated to 
the privileges of an adversary some who were 
unqualified in all respects for the honor of a 
contest so distinguished. 

"Tt is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson pro- 
fessed to • love a good hater,' — a temperament 
that would have singularly adapted hirn to cher- 
ish a preposession in tavor of our bard, who 
fell but little short even of the surly Doctor in 
this qualification, as long as the disposition to 
ill-will continued ; but the warmth of his pas- 
sions was fortunately corrected by their ver- 



satility. He was seldom, indeed never, im 
placable in his resentments, and sometimes, it 
has been alleged, not inviolably faithlul in his 
engagements of friendship. iMuch, indeed, baa 
been said about his inconstancy and caprice ; 
but I am inclined to believe that they originated 
less in levity of sentiment, than from an ex- 
treme impetuosity of leeling, which rendered 
him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensa- 
tions of pique, where he fancied he had discov- 
ered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind- 
ness, took their measure of asperity from the 
overflowings of the opposite sentiment which 
preceded them, and which seldom failed to re- 
gain its ascendancy in his bosom on the return of 
calmer reflection. He was candid and manly 
in the avowal of his errors, and his avowal waa 
reparation. His native ferte never forsaking 
him tor a moment, the value of a frank ac- 
knowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards 
a generous mind, from its never being attended 
with servility. His mind, organized only for 
the stronger and more acute operations of the 
passions, was impracticable to the efforts of 
superciliousness that would have depressed it 
imo humility, and equally superior to the en- 
croachments of venal suggestions that might 
have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. 

" It has been observed, that he was far from 
averse to the incense of flattery, and could re- 
ceive it tempered with less delicacy than might 
have been expected, as he seldom transgressed 
extravagantly in that way himself; where he 
paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the 
power of intoxication, as approbation from him 
was always an honest tribute from the warmth 
and sincerity of his heart. It has been some- 
times represented by those who it should seem 
had a view to depreciate, though they could not 
hope wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, 
which the powers of this extraordinary man had 
invariably bestowed on every thing that came 
from his lips or pen, that the history of the Ayr- 
shire plough-boy was an ingenious fiction, fab- 
ricated tor the purposes of obtaining the interests 
of the great, and enhancing the merits of what 
required no foil. The Cotter s Saturday Night, 
Tain o' Shunter, and The Mountain Daisy, be- 
sides a number ot later productions, where the 
maturity of his genius will be readily traced, 
and which will be given to the public as soon 
as his friends have collected and arranged them, 
speak sufiiciently for themselves ; and had they 
fallen from a hand more dignified in the ranks 
of society than that of a peasant, they had, per- 
haps, bestowed as unusual a grace there, as ev- 
en in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration 
from whence they really sprung. 

"To the obscure scene ot Burns'education, and 
to the laborious though honorable station of ru- 
ral industry, in which his parentage enrolled him, 
almost every inhabitant of ihe south ofScoiland 
can give testimony. His only surviving broth- 
er, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare 
of his forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near 
Mauchline ;* and our poet's eldest son (a lad of 
nine years of age, whose early dispositions al 
ready prove him to be in some measure the in 
heritor of his father's talents as well as indi- 

* Tills very respectable and very superior man is 
now removed to JDumfriesshire. He rents iaiid.^on 
the estate of Closel.iirii, and is a tenant of ihe ven- 
erable Dr. Monteith, (18U0.) E 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



207 



gence) has been destined by his family to the 
humble employment of the loom.* 

'* That Burns received no classical education, 
and was acquainted with the Greek and Roman 
authorsonly through ihe medium of translations, 
is a fact of which all who were in the habit of 
conversing with him might readily be convin- 
ced. I have, indeed, seldom observed him to be 
at a loss in conversation, unless where the dead 
languages and their writers have been the sub- 
jects ofdiscussion. When I pressed him to lell 
me why he never applied himself to acquire the 
Latin, in pariicular, a language which his happy 
memory would have so enabled him to be mas- 
ter of, he used only to reply wiih a smile, that 
he had already learned all the Latin he desired 
to know, and that was otmiia vincit amor; a sen- 
tence, that from his writings and most favorite 
pursuits, it should undoubtedly seem that he 
was most thoroughly versed in : but I really 
believe his classic erudition extended Uttle, if 
any, further. 

*' The penchant Burns had uniformly ac- 
knowledged for the festive pleasures of the ta- 
ble, and towards the fairer and softer objects of 
nature's creation, has been the rallying point 
from whence the attacks of his censors have 
been uniformly directed: and to these, it must 
be confessed, he showed himself no stoic. His 
poetical pieces blend with alternate happiness 
o(" description, the frolic spirit of the Howing 
bowl, or melt the heart to the tender and im- 
passioned sentiments in which beauty always 
taught him to pour forth his own. But who 
would wish to reprove the feelings he has con- 
secrated with such lively touches of nature ? 
And where is the rugged moralist who will per- 
suade us so far to ' chill the genial current of the 
soul.' as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his 
Corinna, or that Aiiacreon sung beneath his 
vine ? 

"I will not, however, undertake to be the 
apologist of the irregularities even of a man of 
genius, though I believe it is as certain that gen- 
ius was never free from irregularities, as thattiieir 
absolution may, in a great measure, be justly 
claimed, since it is perfectly evident that the 
■world had continued very stationary in its intel- 
lectual acquirements, had it never given birth 
to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of 
conduct, and a due regard to the decorums of 
the world, have been so rarely seen to move 
hand in hand with genius, that some have gone 
as far as to say, though there I cannot wholly ac- 
quiesce, thai they are even incompatible; besides 
the frailties that cast their shade over the splen- 
dor of superior merit are more conspicuously 
glaring than where they are the attendants of 
mere mediocrity. It is only on the gem we are 
disturbed to see the dust : the pebble may be 
soiled, and we never regard it. The eccentric 
intuitions of genius too often yield the soul to 
the wild effervesence of desires, always unboun- 
ded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the 
repose of others, as fatal to its own. No wonder, 
then, if virtue herself be sometimes lost in the 
blaze of kindling imagination, or that the calm 
monitions of reason are not invariably found suf- 
ficient to fetter an imagination, which scorns the 
narrow limits and restrictions that would chain 
it to the level of ordinary minds, 'i'he child of 
nature, the child of sensibilily, unschooled in 

* This destination is now altered, (18C0.) E. 



the rigid precepts of philosophy, too often una- 
ble to control the passions which proved a source 
of frequent errors and misfortunes to him, Burns 
made his own artless apology in language more 
impressive than all the argumentatory vindica- 
tions in the world could do, in one of his own 
poems, where he delineates the gradual expan- 
sion of his mind to the lessons of the • tutelary 
muse,' who concludes an address to her pupil, 
almost unique for simplicity and beautiful poet- 
ry, with these lines : 

" 1 saw tliy pulse's madd'ning play 

^^■ild send lliee pleasure's devious way ; 

Misled by fancy's meteor ray. 
By passion driven ; 

But yet the lieht that led astray 

VVas light f^om heaven."* 

" I have already transgressed beyond the 
bounds I had proposed to myself, on first com- 
mitting this sketch lopaper, which comprehends 
what at least I have been led to deem the lead- 
ing features of Burns' mind and character: a lit- 
erary critique I do not aim at ; mine is wholly 
fulfilled, if in these pages I have been able to 
delineate any of those strong trails that distin- 
guished him, of those talents which raised him 
from the plough, where he passed the bleak 
morning of his life, weaving his rude wreaths 
of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang 
around his cottage, to that enviable eminence 
of literary fame, where Scotland will long cher- 
ish his memory with delight and gratitude ; and 
proudly remember, that beneath her cold sky a 
genius was ripened, without care or culture, 
ihat would have done honor to climes more fa- 
vorable to those luxuriances — that warmth of 
coloring and fancy in which he so eminently ex- 
celled. 

" From several paragraphs I have noticed in 
the public prints, ever since the idea of sending 
this sketch to some one of them was formed, I 
find private animosities have not yet subsided, 
and that envy has not exhausted all her shafts. 
1 still trust, however, that honest fame will be 
permanently affixed to Burns'character, which I 
think it will be found he has merited, by the can- 
did and impartial among his countrymen. And 
where a recollection of the imprudence that sul- 
lied his brighter qualifications interpose, let the 
imperfection of ail human excellence be remem* 
bered at the same time, leaving those inconsist- 
encies , which alternately exalted his nature into 
the seraph, and sunk it again into the man, to 
the tribunal which alo?ie can investigate the laby- 
rinths of the human bean — 

' Where they alike in trembrn^ hope repose, 
—The bosom of his father and his God.^ 

Gkay's Elegy. 

''Jinnandale, Jivff. 7, 1796." 

After this account of the life and personal 
character of Burns, it may be expected that 
some inquiry should be made into his literary 
merits. It will not, however, be necessary to 
enter very minutely into this investigation. If 
fiction be, as some suppose; the soul of poetry, 
no one had ever less pretensions to the namo 
of poet than Burns. 'Ihough he has displayed 
great powers of imagination, yet the subjects 
on which he has written, are seldom, if ever, 
imaginary ; his poems, as well as his letters, 
may be considered as the eflusions of his sen- 
sibility, and the transcripts of his own musings 
* Vide the Vision— Duan 2d. 



208 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



on the real incidents of his humble life. If we 
add, that they also contain most happy delinea- 
tions of the characters, manners, and scenery 
that presented themselves to his observation, 
we shall include almost all the subjects of his 
muse. His writings may, therefore, be regard- 
ed as affording a great part of the data on which 
our account of his personal character has been 
founded; and most of the observations we have 
applied to the man, are applicable, with little 
variation, to the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of his ori- 
ginal station in life, was not more evident on 
his form and manners, than on his poetical pro- 
ductions. The incidents which form the sub- 
jects of his poems, though some of them highly 
interesting, and susceptible of poetical imagery, 
are incidents in the life of a peasant who takes 
no pains to disguise the lowliness of his condi- 
tion, or to throw into shade the circumstances 
attending it, which more feeble or more artifi- 
cial minds would have endeavored to conceal. 
The same rudeness and inattention appears in 
the formation of his rhymes, which are fre- 
quently incorrect, while the measure in which 
some of the poems are written, has little of the 
pomp and harmony of modern versification, 
and is indeed to an English ear, strange and 
uncouih. The greater part of his earlier poems 
are written in the dialect of his country, which 
is obscure, if not unintelligible to Englishmen ; 
and which, though it still adheres more or less 
to the speech of every Scotchman, all the po- 
lite and the ambitious are now endeavoring to 
banish from their tongues as well as their writ- 
ings. The use of it in composition naturally 
therefore calls up ideas of vulgarity in the mind. 
These singularities are increased by the char- 
acter of the poet, who delights to express him- 
self with a simplicity that approaches to naked- 
ness, and with an unmeasured energy that often 
alarms delicacy, and sometimes offends taste. 
Hence, in approaching him, the first impres- 
sion is perhaps repulsive : there is an air of 
coarseness about him which is with difficulty 
reconciled to our established notions of poetical 
excellence. 

As the reader, however, becomes better ac- 
quainted with the poet, the effects of his pecu- 
liarities lessen. He perceives in his poems, 
even on the lowest subjects, expressions of 
sentiment, and delineations of manners, which 
are highly interesting. The scenery he de- 
scribes is evidently taken from real life ; the 
characters he introduces, and the incidents he 
relates, have the impression of nature and truth. 
His humor, though wild and unbridled, is irre- 
sistably amusing, and is sometimes heightened 
in its effects by the introduction of emotions 
of tenderness, with which genuine humor so 
happily unites. Nor is this the extent of his 
power. The reader, as he examines farther, 
discovers that the poet is not confined to the 
descriptive, the humorous or the pathetic ; he 
is found, as occasion offers, to rise with ease 
into the terrible and the sublime. Everywhere 
he appears devoid of artifice, performing what 
he attempts with little apparent effort ; and im- 
pressing on the offspring of his fancy the stamp 
of his u?idersta?idi7ig. The reader, capable of 
forming a just estimate of poetical talents, dis- 
covers in these circumstances marks of uncom- 
mon genius, and is willing to investigate more 



minutely its nature and its claims to originali- 
ty. This last point we shall examine first. 

That Burns had not the advantages of a clas- 
sical education, or of any degree of acquaint- 
ance with the Greek or Ronjan writers in their 
original dress, has appeared in the history of 
his life. He acquired indeed some knowledge 
of the French language, but it does not appear 
that he was ever much conversant in French 
literature, nor is there any evidence of his hav- 
ing derived any of his poetical stores from that 
source. With the English classics he became 
well acquainted in the course of his life, and 
the effects of this acquaintance are observable 
in his latter productions ; but the character and 
style of his poetry were formed very early, and 
the model which he followed, in as far as he 
can be said to have had one, is lo be sought 
for in the works of the poets who have written 
in the Scottish dialect — in the works of such 
of them especially as are familiar to the peas- 
antry of Scotland. Some observations on these 
may form a proper introduction to a more par- 
ticular examination of the poetry of Burns. 
The studies of the Editor in this direction are 
indeed very recent and imperfect. It vvould 
have been imprudent for him to have entered 
on this subject at all, but for the kindness of 
Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, whose assistance 
he is proud to acknowledge, and to whom the 
reader must ascribe whatever is of value in the 
following imperfect sketch of literary composi- 
tions in the Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, and 
which does not seem to be satisfactorily ex- 
plained, that in the thirteenth century, the lan- 
guage of the two British nations, if at all dif- 
ferent, difllsred only in the dialect, the Gaelic 
in the one, like the Welsh and Armoric in the 
other, being confined to the mountainous dis- 
tricts.* The English under the Edwards, and 
the Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke the 
same language. We may observe also, that in 
Scotland the history of poetry ascends to a pe- 
riod nearly as remote as in England. Barbour, 
and Blind Harry, James the First, Dunbar, 
Douglas and Lindsay, who lived in the four- 
teenth, fifieenth, and sixteenth centuries, were 
coeval with the fathers of poetry in England : 
and in the opinion of Mr. Wharton, not inferior 
to them in genius or in composition. I'hough 
the language of the two countries gradually de- 
viated from each other during this period, yet 
the difference on the whole was not consider- 
able ; not perhaps greater than between the 
different dialects of the different parts of Eng- 
land in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, 
the language of Scotland was in a flourishing 
condition, wanting only writers in prose equal 
to those in verse. Two circumstances, pro- 
pitious on the whole, operated to prevent this. 
The first was the passion of the Scots for com- 
position in Latin; and the second, the acces- 
sion of James the Sixth to the English throne. 
It may easily be imagined, that if Buchanan 
had devoted his admirable talents, even in part, 
to the cultivations of his native tongue, as was 
done by the revivers of letters in Italy, he 
would have left compositions in that language 
which might have incited other men of genius 

* Historical Essay on Scottish Song, p. 20, by M. 
Ritson. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



209 



to have followed his example,* and given du- 
ration to the langiiage itself. The union of 
the two crowns in the person of James, over- 
threw all reasonable expectation of this kind. 
That monarch, seated on the English throne, 
would no longer suffer himself to he addressed 
in the rude dialect in which the Scottish clergy 
had so often insulted his dignity. He encour- 
aged Latin or English only, both of which he 
{)rided himself on writing with purity, though 
16 himself never could acquire the English 
pronunciation, but spoke wiih a Scottish idiom 
and intonation to the last. Scotsmen of talents 
declined writing in their native language, which 
they knew was not acceptable to their learned 
and pedantic monarch ; and at a time when 
national prejudice and enmity prevailed to a 
great degree, they disdained to study the nice- 
ties of the English tongue, though of so much 
easier acqusition than a dead language. Lord 
Stirling and Drummond of Hawthornden, the 
only Scotsmen who wrote poetry those times, 
were exceptions. They studied the language 
of England and composed in it with precision 
aiid elegance. They were, however, the last 
of their countrymen who deserved to be con- 
sidered as poets in that century. The muses 
of Scotland sunk into silence, and did not 
again raise their voices for a period of eighty 
years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this ex- 
treme depression among a people comparatively 
learned, enterprising, and ingenius ? Shall we 
impute it to the fanaticism ot the covenanters, 
or to the tyranny of the house of Stuart, after 
their restoration to the throne ? Doubtless 
these causes operated, but they seem unequal to 
account for the effect. In England, similar 
distractions and oppressions took place, yet 
poetry flourished there m a remarkable degree. 
During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and 
, Dryden sung, and Milton raised his strain of 
unparalleled grandeur. To the causes already 
mentioned, another must be added, in account- 
ing for the torpor of the Scottish literature — the 
want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to 
employ. The civil wars had frightened away 
the Latin Muses, and no standard had been es- 
tablished of the Scottish tongue, which was 
deviating still farther from the pure English 
idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland may be 
dated from the establishment of the union, or 
rather from the extinction of the rebellion in 
1715. The nations being finally incorporated, 
it was clearly seen that their tongues must in 
the end incorporate also ; or rather indeed that 
the Scottish language must degenerate into a 
provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who 
would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to 
eminence in the united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
peared, who studied the English classics, and 
imitated their beauties, in the same manner as 
they studied the classics of Greece and Rome. 
They had admirable models of composition 
lately presented to them by the writers of the 
reign of Queen Anne ; particularly in the pe- 
riodical papers published by Steele, Addison, 
and their associated friends, which circulated 
widely through Scotland, and diffused every 

* «. ff. The Authors of the Deliciw Poe'arum Sco- 
torum, &o. _ . 

14 



where a taste for purity of style and sentiment, 
and for critical disquisition. At length the 
Scottish writers succeeded in English compo- 
sition, and a union was formed ot the literary 
talents, as well as of the legislatures of the 
two nations. • On this occasion the poets took 
the lead. While Henry Home,* Dr. Wallace, 
and their learned associates, were only lay- 
ing in their intellectual stores, and studying to 
clear themselves of their Scottish idioms, 
Thomson, Mallet, and Hamilton of Bangour, 
had made their appearance before the public, 
and been enrolled in the list of English poets. 
The writers in prose followed, a numerous and 
powerful band, and poured their ample stores 
into the general stream of British literature. 
Scotland possessed her four universities before 
the accession of James to the English throne. 
Immediately before the union, she acquired 
her parochial schools. These establishments 
combining happily together, made the elements 
of knowledge of easy acquisition, and present- 
ed a direct path, by which the ardent student 
might be carried along into the recesses of sci- 
ence or learning. As civil broils ceased, and 
faction and prejudice gradually died away, a 
wider field was opened for literary ambition, 
and the influence of Scottish institutions for 
instruction, on the productions of the press, 
became more and more apparent. 

It seems indeed proltable, that the establish- 
ment of the parochial schools produced effects 
on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have 
not hitherto been suspected, and which, though 
less splendid in their nature, are not however 
to be considered as trivial, whether we consid- 
er the happiness or the morals of the people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the 
original inhabitants of the British isles possess- 
ed a peculiar and interesting species of music, 
which being banished from the plains by the 
Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved 
with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland 
and in the mountains of Scotland and Wales. 
I'he Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh music 
difier, indeed, from each other, but the differ- 
ence may be considered as in dialect only, and 
probably produced by the influence of time, 
and like the different dialects of their common 
language. If this conjecture be true, the Scot- 
tish music must be more immediately of a 
Highland origin, and the Lowland tunes, 
though now of a character somewhat distinct, 
must have descended from the mountains in 
remote ages. Whatever credit may be given 
to conjectures, evidently involved in great un- 
certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scot- 
tish peasantry have been long in possession of 
a number of songs and ballads composed in 
their native dialect, and sung to their native 
music. The subjects of these compositions 
were such as most interested the simple inhab- 
itants, and in the succession of time varied, 
probably as the condition of society varied. 

During the separation and the hostility of the 
two nations, these songs and ballads, as far as 
our imperfect documents enable us to judge, 
were chiefly warlike ; such as the Hu7itis of 
Cheviot, and the Buttle of Harlow. Alter the 
union of the two crowns, when a certain de- 
gree of peace and of tranquillity took place, 
the rural muse of Scotland breathed in softer 
* Lord Kaimea. 



210 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



accents. " In the want of real evidence re- 
specting the history of our songs," says Mr. 
Ramsay of Ochtertyre, '"recourse may be had 
to conjecture. One would be disposed to think 
that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes 
were clothed with new words after the union 
of the crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, 
who had formerly been warriors from choice, 
and husbandmen from necessity, either quitted 
the country, or were transformed into real shep- 
herds, easy in their circumstances, and satisfi- 
ed with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit 
of chivalry for which they are celebrated by 
JFroissart, remained, sufficient to inspire eleva- 
tion of sentiment and gallantry towards the fair 
sex. The familiarity and kindness which had 
long subsisted between the gentry and the peas- 
antry, could not all at once be obliterated, and 
this connection tended to sweeten rural life. In 
this state of innocence, ease and tranquillity of 
mind, the love of poetry and music would still 
maintain its ground, though it would naturally 
assume a form congenial to the more peaceful 
state of society. I'he minstrels, whose metri- 
cal tales used once to rouse the borderers like 
the trumpet's sound, had been by an order of 
legislature, (in 1579,) classed with rogues and 
vagabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. 
Knox and his disciples influenced the Scottish 
parliament, but contended in vain with her ru- 
ral muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, proba- 
bly on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its 
tributary streams, one or more original genius- 
es may have arisen, who were destined to give 
a new turn to the taste of their countrymen. 
They would see that the events and pursuits 
which chequer private life were the proper sub- 
jects for popular poetry. Love, which had 
formerly held a divided sway with glory and 
ambition, bocame now the master passion of 
the soul. To portray in lively and delicate 
colors, though with a hasty hand, the hopes and 
fears that agitate the breast of a love-sick swain, 
or forlorn maiden, affords ample scope to the 
rural poet. Love -songs, of which Tibullus 
himself would not have been ashamed, might 
be composed by an uneducated rustic with a 
slight tincture of letters ; or if in these songs, 
the character of the rustic be sometimes as- 
sumed, the truth of character, and the language 
of nature, are preserved. With unaffected sim- 
.plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most 
likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy 
.mistress, or to regain a tickle lover. Even in 
«uch as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
breaks through, and dispels the deep and set- 
lled gloom which characterizes the sweetest of 
the Highland luinags, or vocal airs. Nor are 
these songs all plaintive ; many of them are 
iLvely and humorous, and some appear to us 
coarse and indelicate. 1 hey seem, however, 
genuine descriptions of the manners of an en- 
ergetic and sequestered people in their hours of 
mirth and festivity, though in their portraits 
some objects are brought into open view, which 
more fastidious painters would have thrown 
into shade. 

^'As those rural poets sung for amusement, 
not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a 
love-song, or a ballad of satire or humor, which, 
like the works of the elder minstrels, were sel- 
dom committed to writing, but treasured up in 
the memory of their friends and neighbors. 



Neither known to the learned, nor patronized 
by the great, these rustic bards lived and died 
in obscurity; and by a strange fatality, their 
story, and even their very names forgotten.* 
When proper models for pastoral songs were 
produced, there would be no want ot imitators. 
To succeed in this species of composition, 
soundness of understanding, and sensibility of 
heart were more requisite than flights of imagi- 
nation or pomp of numbers. Great changes 
have certainly taken place in Scottish song- 
writing, though we cannot trace the steps of 
this change ; and few of the pieces admired in 
Queen Mary's time are now to be discovered 
in modern collections. It is possible, though 
not probable, that the music may have remain- 
ed nearly the same, though the words to the 
tunes were entirely remodelled. "t 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. It 
cannot, however, be presumed, that the stale 
of ease and tranquillity described by Mr. Ram- 
say, took place among the Scottish peasantry, 
immediately on the union of the crowns, or 
indeed during the greater part of the seven- 
teenth century. The Scottish nation, through 
all its ranks, was deeply agitated by the civil 
wars, and the religious persecutions which suc- 
ceeded each other in that disastrous period ; it 
was not till after the revolution in 1688, and the 
subsequent establishment of their beloved form 
of church government, that the peasantry of the 
Lowlands enjoyed comparative repose; and it 
is since that period, that a great number of the 
most admired Scottish songs have been produc- 
ed, though the tunes to which they are sung, 
are in general of much greater antiquity. It is 
not unreasonable to suppose that the peace and 
security derived from the Revolution and the 
Union, produced a favorable change on the 
rustic poetry of Scotland ; and it can scarcely 
be doubted, that the institution of parish-schools 
in 1696, by which a certain degree of instruc- 
tion was diffused universally among the peas- 
antry, contributed to this happy eflect. 

Soon after this appearetl Allan Ramsay, the 
Scottish Theocritus. He was born on the high 
mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan- 
dale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Glan- 
gonar, a stream which descends into the Clyde. 
The ruins of this hamlet are still shown to the 
inquiring traveler.! He was the son of a peas- 
ant, and probably received such instructiun as 
his parish-school bestowed, and the poverty of 
his parents admitted. II Ramsay made his ap- 

*In the Pepys Collection, there are a few Scottish 
songs of the last century, but the names of the au- 
thors are not preservL-d. 

t Extract of a letter from Mr Ramsay of Ochter- 
tyre to the Editor, Septemher 11, 1799. In the Bee, 
vol. ii. is a communication to Mr. Ramsay, under 
the signature of J. Runcole, which enters into this 
suhject somewhat more at large. In that paper he 
gives his reasons for questioning the antiquity of 
the most celehrated Scottish songs. 

X See Campbell's ILslory ol" Poetry in Scotland, p. 
185. 

II The father of Ramsay was, it is said, a workman 
in the lead-mines of the Earl of I loptton, at Lead- 
hills. The workmen in those mines ai present are of 
a very superior character to miners in general. 'J'hey 
have only six hours of iabor in the day. and have 
time for reading. They have a common library, sup- 
ported by contribution, conta nine several thousand 
volumes. When this was instituted I have not learn- 
ed. These miner3 are said to he of a very sober and 
moral character : Allan Ramsay, when very young, 



THE LIFE OF B URN S. 



211 



pearance in Edinburgh in the beginning of the 
present century, in the humble character of an 
apprentice to a barber, or peruke-maker; he was 
then fourteen or fifteen years of age. By de- 
grees he acquired notice for his social disposi- 
tion, and his talent, for the composition of verses 
in the Scottish idiom ; and changitig his profes- 
sion for that of a bookseller, he became intimate 
with many of the literary, as well as of the gay 
and fashionable characters of his time.* Having 
published a volume of poems of his own in 1721, 
which was favorably received, he undertook to 
make a collection of ancient Scottish poems^ un- 
der the title of the Ever-Green, and was after- 
wards encouraged to present to the world a col- 
lection of Scottish songs. " From what sources 
he procured them," says Mr. Ramsay of Och- 
tertyre, "whether from tradition or manuscript, 
is uncertain. As in the Ever-Gree7i he made 
some rash attempts to improve on the originals 
of his ancient poems, he probably used still 
greater freedom with the songs and ballads. The 
truth cannot, however, be known on this point, 
till manuscripts of the songs printed by him, 
more ancient than the present century, shall be 
produced ; or access be obtained to his own pa- 
pers, if they are still in existence. To several 
tunes which either wanted words, or had words 
that were improper or imperfect, he, or his 
friends, adapted verses worthy of the melodies 
they accompanied, worthy indeed of the golden 
age. These verses were perfectly intelligible 
to every rustic, yet justly admired by persons 
of taste, who regarded them as the genuine off- 
spring of the pastonal muse. In some respects 
Ramsay had advantages not possessed by poets 
writing in the Scottish dialect in our days. 
Songs in the dialect of Cumberland or Lancas- 
shire could never be popular, because these dia- 
lects have never been spoken by persons of 
fashion. But till the middle of the present cen- 
tury, every Scotsman, from the peer to the peas- 
ant, spoke a truly Doric language. It is true 
the English moralists and poets were by this 
time read by every person of condition, and con- 
sidered as the standards for polite composition. 
But, as national prejudices were still strong, the 
busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair, con- 
tinued to speak their native dialect, and that 
with an elegance and poignancy, of which Scois- 
men of the present day can have no just notion. 
I am old enough to have conversed with Mr. 
Spittal, of Leuciiat, a scholar and a man of fash- 
ion, who survived all the members of the Union 
Parliament, in which he had a seat. His pro- 
nunciation and phraseology differed as much 
from the common dialect, as the language of 
St. James's from that of Thames-street. Had 
we retained a court and parliament of our own, 
the tongues of the two sister kingdoms would 
indeed have differed like the Castilian and Por- 
tuguese ; but each would have had its own clas- 
sics, not in a single branch, but in the whole 
circle of literature. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit and 
fashion of his day, and several of them attempt- 
is supposed to have been a washer of ore in tliese 
mines. 

file was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and his 
clubof sma/i wits, who about 1719, pubiishcil a very 
poor ni'scellany, to which Dr. Young, the author oi 
the Niffht Thoughts, pretixed a copy of verses." Ex- 
tract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay of Ochlertyre to 
the Editor. 



ed to write poetry in his manner. Persons too 
idle or too dissipated to tiunk of compositions 
that required much exertion, succeeded very 
happily in making tender sonnets to favorite 
tunes in compliment to their mistresses, and, 
transforming themselves into impassioned shep- 
herds, caught the language of the characters 
they assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, Rob- 
ert Crawlord of Auchinames, wrote the modern 
song of Tweed Hide,* which has been so much 
admired, in 1713, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first 
of our lawyers, who both spoke and wrote En- 
glish elegantly, composed, in the character of a 
love-sick swain, a beautiful song, beginning, 
My sheep I neglected, 1 lost my sheep-hook, on 
the marriage of his mistress, Miss Forbes, with 
Ronald Crawford. And about twelve years af- 
terwards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote ihe an- 
cient words to the tune of the Flowers of the For- 
est,^ and supposed to allude to the battle of 
Flowden. In spite of the double rhyme, it is a 
sweet, and though in some parts allegorical, a 
natural expression of national sorrow. The more 
modern words to the same tune, beginning, 1 
have seen the smiling of fortiuie beguiling, were 
written long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a woman 
of great wit, who outlived all the first group of 
literati of the present century, all of whom were 
very fond of her. I was delighted with her com- 
pany, though, when I saw her, she was very 
old. Much did she know that is now lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scottish songs 
produced in the earlier part of the present cen- 
tury, may be mentioned the ballad of Hardik- 
nute by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad of William 
and Margaret; and the song entitled The Birks 
of Endermay by Mallet ; the love-song, begin- 
ning, Forever, Fortune, wilt thou prove, produ- 
ced by the youthful muse of Thomson ; and the 
exquisite pathetic ballad, The Braes of Yarrow, 
by Hamilton of Bangour. On the revival of let- 
ters in Scotland, subsequent to the Union, a very 
general taste seems to have prevailed for the na- 
tional songs and music. " For many years," 
says Mr. Ramsay, " the singing of songs was the 
great delight of the higher and middle order of 
the people, as well as of the peasantry ; and 
though a taste for Italian music has interfered 
with this amusement, it is still very prevalent. 
Between forty and fifty years ago. the common 
people were not only exceedingly fond of songs 
and ballads, but of metrical history. Often have 
I, in my cheerful morn of youth, listened to 
them with delight, when reading or reciting the 
exploits of Wallace and Bruce against the South- 
rons. Lord Hailes was wont to call Blind Har- 
ry their Bible, he being their great favorite next 
the Scriptures. When, therefore, one in the 
vale of life, felt the first emotions of genius, he 
wanted not models sui generis. But though 
the seeds of poetry were scattered with a plen- 
tiful hand among the Scottish peasantry, the 
product was probably like that of pears and ap- 
ples — of a thousand that spring up, nine hun- 
dred and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on 
an edge ; forty-five or more are passable and 
useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavor. Al- 
lan Ramsay and Burns are wildings of this last 
description. They had the example of the elder 
Scottish poets ; they were not without the aid 

* Beginrins, '' What heaniies does Flora disclose!" 
t Beginning, " I have heard a lilting at our ewea- 
milking." 



212 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



of the best English writers ; and what was of 
more importance, they were no strangers to the 
book of nature, and the book of God." 

From this general view, it is apparent that 
Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great 
measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his 
country. His collection of ancient Scottish po- 
ems, under the name of The Ever-Green, his 
collection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, 
the principal of which is the Ge7itle Shepherd, 
have been universally read among the peasantry 
of his country, and have in some degree super- 
seded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as 
recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns 
was well acquainted with all these. He had al- 
so before him the poems of Fergusson in the 
Scottish dialect, which have been produced in 
our own times, and of which it will be necessa- 
ry to give a short account. 

Fergusson was born of parents who had it in 
their power to procure him a liberal education, 
a circumstance, however, which in Scotland 
implies no very high rank in society. From a 
well written and apparently authentic account 
of his hfe,* we learn that he spent six years at 
the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and sev- 
eral years at the universities of Edinburgh and 
St. Andrews. It appears that he was at one 
time destined for the Scottish church ; but as he 
advanced towards manhood, he renounced that 
intention, and at Edinburgh entered the office 
of a writer to the signet, a title which designates 
a separate and higher order of Scottish attor- 
neys. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, a 
warm and generous heart, and talents for socie- 
ty of the most attractive kind. To such a man 
no situation could be more dangerous than that 
in which he was placed. The excesses into 
which he was led, impaired his feeble constitu- 
tion, and he sunk under them in the month of 
October, 1774, in his 23rd or 24th year. Burns 
was not acquainted with the poems of this youth- 
ful genius when he himself began to write po- 
etry ; and when he first saw them he had re- 
nounced the muses. But while he resided in 
the town of Irvine, meeting with Fergussoii' s 
Scottish Foems, he informs us that he " strung 
his lyre anew with emulating vigor-'^t Touch- 
ed by the symphathy originating in kindred ge- 
nius, and in ihe forebodings of similar fortune. 
Burns regarded Fergusson with a partial and an 
affectionate admiration. Over his grave he 
erected a monument as has already been men- 
tioned ; and his poems he has, in several instan- 
ces, made the subjects of his imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish poems 
known to Burns, those who are acquainted with 
them will see that they are chiefly humorous 
or pathetic; and under one or other of these de- 
scriptions most of his own poems will class. 
Let us compare him with his predecessors un- 
der each of these points of view, and close our 
examination with a few general observations. 

It has frequently been observed, that Scot- 
land has produced, comparatively speaking, few 
writers who have excelled in humor. But this 
observation is true only when applied to those 
who have continued to reside in their own 
country, and have confined themselves to com- 

* In the supplement to the " Encyclopjedia Bri- 
tannica." See also, " Campbell's Introduction to the 
History of " Poetry in Scotland," p. 288. 

t See p. 160. 



position in pure English ; and in these circum- 
stances it admits of an easy explanation. The 
Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect 
of Scotland, have been at all times remarkable 
for dwelling on subjects of humor, in which, 
indeed, many of them have excelled. It would 
be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland 
having become provincial, is now scarcely suit- 
ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If 
we may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk 
of the Grene was written by James the First 
of Scotland,* this accomplished monarch, who 
had received an English education under the 
direction of Henry the Fourth, and who bore 
arms under his gallant successor, gave the mo- 
del on which the greater part of the humorous 
productions of the rustic muse of Scotland has 
been formed. Christis Kirk of the Grene was 
reprinted by Ramsay, somewhat modernized 
in the orthography, and two cantoes were added 
by him, in which he attempts to carry on the 
design. Hence the poem of King James is 
usually printed in Ramsay's wurks. The roy- 
al bard describes, in the first canto, a rustic 
dance, and afterwards a contention in archery, 
ending in an affray. Ramsay relates the restor- 
ation of concord, and the renewal of the rural 
sports, with the humors of a country wedding. 
I'hough each of the poets describes the man- 
ners of his respective age, yet in the whole piece 
there is a very sufficient uniformity ; a strik- 
ing proof of the identity of character in the Scot- 
tish peasantry, at the two periods, distant from 
each other three hundred years. It is an hon- 
orable distinction to this body of men, that their 
character and manners, very little embellished, 
have been found to be susceptible of an amus- 
ing and interesting species of poetry ; and it 
must appear not a little curious, that the single 
nation of modern Europe, which possesses an 
original rural poetry, should have received the 
model, followed by their rustic bards, from the 
monarch on the throne. 

The two additional cantoes of Christis Kirk 
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy, are among the 
happiest of his productions. His chief excel- 
lence, indeed, lay in the description of rural 
characters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did 
not possess any very high powers either of im- 
agination or of understanding. He was well 
acquainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their 
lives and opinions. The subject was in a great 
measure new ; his talents were equal to the 
subject ; and he has shown that it may be hap- 
pily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his Gentle 
Shepherd the characters are delineated from na- 
ture, the descriptive parts are in the genuine 
style of beautiful simplicity, the passions and 
affections of rural life are finely portrayed, and 
the heart is pleasingly interested in the happi- 
ness that is bestowed on innocence and virtue. 
Throughout the whole there is an air of reali- 
ty which the most careless reader cannot but 
perceive; and in fact, no poem ever, perhaps, 
acquired so high a reputation, in which truth 

* Notwithstanding the evidence produced on this 
subject by Mr. Tytler, the Editor acknowledges hig 
being somewhat of a sceptic on this point. Sir Da- 
vid Dalrymple inclines to the opinion that it was 
written by his successor, James the Fifth. There are 
difficulties attending this supposition also. But on 
the subject of Scottish Antiquities, the Editor is aa 
incompetent judge. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



213 



received so so little embellishment from the 
imagination. In his pastoral songs, and in his 
rural tales, Ramsay appears to less advantage 
indeed, but still with considerable attraction. 
The story of the Monk and the Miller's Wife, 
though somewhat licentious, may rank w'ith 
the happiest productions of Prior or La Fon- 
taine. But when he attempts subjects from 
higher life, and aims at purer English compo- 
sition, he is feeble and uninteresting, and sel- 
dom ever reaches mediocrity.* Neither are 
his familiar epistles and elegies in the Scottish 
dialect entitled to much approbation. Though 
Fergusson had higher powers of imagination 
than Ramsay, his genius was not of the high- 
est order ; nor did his learning, which was con- 
siderable, improve his genius. His poems 
written in pure English, in which he often fol- 
lows classical models, though superior to the 
English poems of Ramsay, seldom rise above 
mediocrity ; but in those composed in the Scot- 
tish dialect he is often very successful. He 
was in general, however, less happy than Ram- 
say in the subjects of his muse. As he spent 
the greater part of his life in Edinburgh, and 
wrote for his amusement in the intervals of 
business or dissipation, his Scottish poems are 
chiefly founded on the incidents of a town life, 
which, though they are susceptible of humor, 
do not admit of those delineations of scenery 
and manners, which vivify the rural poetry of 
Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse the 
fancy and interest the heart. The town-ec- 
logues of Fergusson, if we may so denominate 
them, are however faithful to nature, and often 
distinguished by a very happy vein of humor. 
His poems entitled, The Daft Days, The King's 
Birth-day in Edinburgh, Leiih Races, and The 
Hallow Fair, will justify this character. In 
these, particularly in the last, he imitated Chris- 
tis Kirh of the Grene, as Ramsay had done 
before him. His Address to the Tronkirk Bell 
is an exquisite piece of humor, which Burns 
has scarcely excelled. In appreciating the ge- 
nius of Fergusson, it ought to be recollected, 
that his poems are the careless eflfusions of an 
irregular but amiable young man, who wrote 
for the periodical papers of the day, and who 
died in early youth. Had his hfe been prolong- 
ed under happier circumstances of fortune, he 
would probably have risen to much higher rep- 
utation. He might have excelled in rural poe- 
try ; for though his professed pastorals on the 
established Sicilian model, are stale and unin- 
teresting, The Farmer's I?tgle,f which may be 
considered as a Scottish pastoral, is the happi- 
est of all his productions, and certainly was 
the archetype of the Cotter^ s Saturday Night. 
Fergusson, and more especially Burns, have 
shown that the character and manners of the 
peasantry of Scotland of the present times, are 
as well adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ram- 
say, or of the author of Christis Kirk of the 
Grene. 

The humor of B\jrns is of a richer vein than 
that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, 
as he himself informs us, he had " frequently 
in his eye, but rather with a view to kindle at 
their flame, than to servile imitation, "t His 
descriptive powers, whether the objects on 
which they are employed be comic or serious, 

* See " The Morning Interview," &.c. 

t The farmer's fire-side. J See Appendix. 



animate or inanimate, are of the highest order. 
A superiority of this kind is essential to every 
species of poetical excellence. In one of his 
earlier poems, his plan seems to be to inculcate 
a lesson of contentment in the lower classes of 
society, by showing that their superiors are 
neither much better nor happier than them- 
selves ; and this he chooses to execute in a 
form of a dialogue between two dogs. He in- 
troduces this dialogue by an account of the 
persons and characters of the speakers. The 
first, whom he has named Ccesar, is a dog of 
condition : 

" His locked, lettered, bravv brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar." 

High-bred though he is, he is however full ol 
condescension : 

"At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, Iho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stawn't. as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wV him" 

The other, Luath, is a "plowman's collie," 
but a cur of a good heart and a sound under- 
standing : 

" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat hitti friends in ilka place ; 
His breast was white, his towsy back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black. 
His gawcie tail, wV upward curl, 
Hung o^er his liurdies U'V a sicurl." 

Never were /70a dogs so exquisitely delinea- 
ted. Their gambols before they sit down to 
moralize, are described with an equal degree 
of happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, 
the character, as well as the different condition 
of the two speakers, is kept in view. The 
speech of Luath, in which he enumerates the 
comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- 
count of their merriment on the first day of 
the year : 

" That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart- inspiring steam ; 
'J'he luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richl guid-will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse. 
The young anes rantin thro' the house. 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hue barkit wi' them." 

Of all the animals who have moralized on 
human affairs since the days of ^Esop, the dog 
seems best entitled to this privilege, as well 
from his superior sagacity, as from his being, 
more than any other, the friend and associate 
of man. The dogs of Burns, excepting in their 
talent for moralizing, are downright dogs ; and 
not like the horses of Swift, or the Hind and 
Panther of Dryden, men in the shape of brutes. 
It is this circumstance that heightens the hu- 
mor of the dialogue. The "twa dogs" are 
constantly kept before our eyes, and the con- 
trast between their form and character as dogs, 
and the sagacity of their conversation, height- 
ens the humor and deepens the impression of 
the poet's satire. Though in this poem the 
chief excellence may be considered as humor, 
yet great talents are displayed in its composi- 
tion ; the happiest powers of description and the 
deepest insight into the human heart.* It is 

* When this poem lirst appeared, it was thought 
by some very surprising that a peasant, who had not 
an opportunity of associating evt-n with a simple 



214 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



seldom, however, that the humor of Burns ap- 
pears in so simple a form. 'I'he liveliness of 
his sensibility frequently impels him to intro- 
duce into subjects of humor, emotions of ten- 
derness or of piiy ; and where occasion admits, 
he is sometimes carried on to exert the higher 
powers of imagination. In such instances he 
leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergus- 
son, and associates himself wiih the masters 
of English poetry, whose language he fre- 
quently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humor, ex- 
amples may be found in The Death a7id Dying 
Words of poor Mailie, in The Auld Farmer's 
New- Year's Morning Salutatio7i to his Mare 
Maggie, and in many of his other poems. The 
praise of whisky is a favorite subject with 
Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of 
Scotch Drink. After mentioning its cheermg 
influence in a variety of situations, he de- 
scribes, with singular liveliness and power of 
fancy, its stimulating effects on the blacksmith 
working at his forge : 

" Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie. plowman duel, 
Brings hardowrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong fore hammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamor." 

On another occasion,* choosing to exalt whis- 
ky above wine, he introduces a comparison 
between the natives of more genial climes, to 
whom the vine furnishes their beverage, and 
his own countrymen who drink the spirit of 
malt. The description of the Scotsmen is hu- 
morous : 

"But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a' Highland gill, 
Say such is Royal George's will, 

An' there 's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow." 

Here the notion of danger rouses the imagi- 
nation of the poet. He goes on thus : 

" Nae cauld, faint-hearted douhtings tease him; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eyu he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breathing lea'es him 

In faint huzzas." 

Again, however, he sinks into humor, and 
concludes the poem with the following most 
laughable, but most irreverent apostrophe : 

" Scotland, my auld respected Mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam : 
Freedom and whisky gang thegither, 

Tak off your diam ! 

Of this union of humor with the higher pow- 

gentleman, should have been able to portray the 
character of high-life with such accuracy. And 
when it was recollected tluit he had probably been 
at the races of Ayr, where nobility as well as gentry 
were to be seen, it was concluded that the r.ice- 
ground had been the field of his observation. This 
was sagacious enough ; but it did not require such 
instruction to inform Burns, that hiuiian nature is 
essentially the same in the hich and the low ; and 
a genius which comprehends the human mind, easi- 
ly conipreliends the accidental varieties introduced 
by situation. 

*"The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer to the 
Scotch Representatives in Parliament." 



ers of imagination, instances may be found in 
the poem entitled Death and Dr. Hornbook, and 
in almost every stanza of the Address to the 
Deil, one of the happiest of his productions. 
After reproaching this terrible being with all 
his " doings" and misdeeds, in the course of 
which he passes through a series of Scottish 
superstitions, and rises at times into a high 
strain of poetry ; he concludes this address, 
delivered in a tone of great familiarity, not al- 
together unmixed with apprehension, in the 
following words : 

" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickle ben ! 
O wad you tak a thought an' men'; 
Ve aililins might— 1 dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

E'en for your sake 1" 

Humor and tenderness are here so happily 
intermixed, that it is impossible to say which 
preponderates, 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causewaij and the Flainstonvs* of Edinburgh. 
This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue 
between the Old and the New bridge over the 
river Ayr.t The nature of such subjects re- 
quires that they shall be treated humorously, 
and Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond 
this. Though the Causeway and the Plai7i- 
stones talk together, no attempt is made to per- 
sonify the speakers. A "cadie"t heard the 
conversation, and reported it to the poet. 

Jn the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, 
Burns himself is the auditor, and the time and 
occasion on which it occurred is related with 
great circumstantiality. The poet, " pressed 
by care," or "inspired by whim," had left his 
bed in the town of Ayr, and wandered out 
alone in the darkness and solitude of a winter 
night, to the mouth of the river, where the 
stillness was interrupted only by the rushing 
sound of the influx of the tide. It was after 
midnight. The Dungeon-clock II had struck 
two, and the sound had been repeated by Wal- 
lace-Tower. II All else was hushed. The 
moon shone brightly, and 

"The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 

Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream."— 

In this situation the listening bard hears the 
" clanging sugh" of wings moving through the 
air, and speedily he perceives two beings, rear- 
ed the one on the Old, the other on the New 
Bridge, and whose conversation with each 
other he rehearses. The genii enter into a 
comparison of the edifices over which they 
preside, and afterwards, as is usual between the 
old and young, compare modern characters and 
manners with those of past times. They differ, 
as may be expected, and taunt and scold each 
other in Broad Scotch. This conversation, 
which is certainly humorous, may be consider- 
ed as the proper business of the poem. As 
the debate runs high, and threatens serious 
consequences, all at once it is interrupted by a 
new scene of wonders : 



All before their sight 



A fairy train appeared in order bright ; 

Adowa the glittering stream they featly danc'U; 

*The middle of the street, and the side-way. 
t The Brigs of Ayr, Poems, p. 9. JA messenger 
II The two steeples of Ayr. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



215 



Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd ; 
'i hey footed o'er the watery glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneatlj their feet ; 
While arts of Miiisirelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic sung." 

Tr * ^ tP 

"The Genius of the Stream in front appears — 
A venerable chiif, advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter-tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of other allegorical 
beings, among whom are the four seasons, 
Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage: 

"Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 

A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair ; 

Learning and Wealth in equal measures trode, 

From simple Catrine. their long-lov'd abode ; 

Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel- 
wreath, 

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 

The broken iron instrument of Death ; 

At sight of whom our sprites forgot their kindling 
wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
displays various and powerful talents, and may 
serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. In 
particular, it affords a striking instance of his 
being carried beyond his original purpose by 
the powers of imagination. 

In Fergusson's poems, the Plainstones and 
Causeway contrast the characters of the differ- 
ent persons who walked upon them. Burns 
probably conceived, that by a dialogue between 
the Old and New Bridge, he might form a hu- 
morous contrast between ancient and modern 
manners in the town of Ayr. Such a dialogue 
could only be supposed to pass in the stillness 
of night ; and this led our poet to a description 
of a midnight scene, which excited in a high 
degree the powers of his imagination. During 
the whole dialogue the scenery is present to 
his fancy, and at length it suggests to him a 
fairy dance of aerial beings, under the beams 
of the moon, by which the wrath of the Genii 
of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this 
poem are, it is not an incongruity that dis- 
pleases ; and we have only to regret that the 
poet did not bestow a little pains in making 
the figures more correct, and in smoothing the 
versihcation. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may be in- 
cluded his Dedication to G. H. Esq., discover, 
like his other writings, the powers of a superi- 
or understanding. They display deep insight 
into human nature, a gay and happy strain of 
reflection, great independence of sentiment, and 
generosity of heart. It is to be regretted, that 
in his Holy Fair, and in some of his other po- 
ems, his humor degenerates into personal satire, 
and that it is not sufficiently guarded in other 
respects. The Halloween of Burns is free 
from every objection of this sort. It is inter- 
esting, not merely from its humorous descrip- 
tion of manners, but as it records the spells and 
charms used on the celebration of a festival, 
now, even in Scotland, falling into neglect, but 
which was once observed over the greater part 
of Great Britain and Ireland.* These charms 
are supposed to afford an insight into futurity, 
especially on the subject of marriage, the most 



*In Ireland it is still celebrated. 
in disuse in Wales. 



It is not quitf 



interesting event of rural life. In the Hallow- 
een, a female in performing one ol the spells, 
has occasion to go out by moonlight to dip 
her shift-sleeve into a stream running towards 
the south.* It was not necessary for Burns to 
give a description of this stream. Bui it was 
the character of his ardent mind to pour forth 
not merely what the occasion required, but 
what it admitted; and the temptation to describe 
so beautiful a natural object by moonlight, 
was not to be resisted : 

" Whyles o'er a linn tiie burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wirnpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar ii strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, diincing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night." 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect 
will allow this to be one of the finest instances 
of description which the records of poetry af- 
ford. Though of a very difierent nature, it may 
be compared in point of excellence with Thom- 
son's description of a river swollen by the rains 
of winter, bursting through the straits that 
confine its torrent, "boiling, wheeling, foam- 
ing, and thundering along. "t 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in 
rural poetry of a serious nature. Burns excelled 
equally as in that of a humorous kind; and, 
using less of the Scottish dialect in his serious 
poems, he becomes more generally intelligible. 
It is difficult to decide whether the Address to 
a Mouse, whose nest was turned up with the 
plow, should be considered as serious or comic. 
Be this as it may, the poem is one of the hap- 
piest and most finished of his productions. If 
we smile at the " bickering battle" of this lit- 
tle flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness and 
pity. The descriptive part is admirable ; the 
moral reflections beautiful, and arising directly 
out of the occasion ; and in the conclusion there 
is a deep melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and 
dread, that rises to the sublime. The Address 
to a Mountain Daisy, turned down with the 
plow, is a poem of the same nature, though 
somewhat inferior in point of originality, as 
well as in the interest produced. To extract 
out of incidents so common, and seemingly so 
trivial as these, so fine a train of sentiment and 
imagery, is the surest proof, as well as the 
most brilliant triumph, of original genius. 
The Visio7i, in two cantoes, from which a 
beautiful extract is taken by Mr. Mackenzie, 
in the 97th number of The Lounger, is a poem 
of great and various excellence. The opening, 
in which the poet describes his own state of 
mind, retiring in the evening, wearied from the 
labors of the day, to moralize on his conduct 
and prospects, is truly interesting. The cham- 
ber, if we may so term it, in which he sits 
down to muse, is an exquisite painting : 

"There, lanely, by the ingle-check 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That till'd, wi' hoast-provokinii; smeek, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin." 

To reconcile to our imagination the entrance 

* See " Halloween," Stanzas xxiv. and xxv. 
I See Thomson's Winter. 



216 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, 
required the powers of Burns — he however suc- 
ceeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, at- 
titude, and dress, unUke those of other spirit- 
ual beings, are distinctly portrayed. To the 
painting on her mantle, on which is depicted 
the most striking scenery, as well as the most 
distinguished characters, of his native country, 
some exceptions may be made. The mantle 
of Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis,* and the 
shield of Achilles, is too much crowded with 
figures, and some of the objects represented 
upon it are scarcely admissible, according to 
the principles of design. The generous tem- 
perament of Burns led him into these exuber- 
ances. In his second edition he enlarged the 
number of figures originally introduced, that 
he might include objects to which he was at- 
tached by sentiments of affection, gratitude, or 
patriotism. The second Duan, or canto of 
this poem, in which Coila describes her own 
nature and occupations, particularly her super- 
intendence of his infant genius, and in which 
she reconciles him to the character of a bard, 
is an elevated and solemn strain of poetry, 
ranking in all respects, excepting the harmony 
of numbers, with the higher productions of the 
English. The concluding stanza, compared 
with that already quoted, will show to what a 
height Burns rises in this poem, from the point 
at which he set out : 

"j3nd uear thou this — she solemn said, 
And, bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away." 

In various poems. Burns has exhibited the 
picture of a mind under the deep impression 
of real sorrow. The Lame?it, the Ode to Ruin, 
Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this 
character. In the first of these poems, the 8th 
stanza, which describes a sleepless night from 
anguish of mind, is particularly striking. Burns 
often indulged in those melancholy views of the 
nature and condition of man. which are so con- 
genial to the temperament of sensibility. The 
poem entitled Man was made to Mourn, affords 
an instance of this kind, and The Winter Nieht 
is of the same description. The last is highly 
characteristic, both of the temper of mind, and 
of the condition of Burns. It begins with a 
description of a dreadful storm on a night in 
winter. The poet represents himself as lying 
in bed, and listening to its howling. In this 
situation he naturally turns his thoughts to the 
owrie Cattle and the silly Sheep, exposed to all 
the violence of the tempest. Having lamented 
their fate, he proceeds in the following man- 
ner : 

"Ilk happing bird — wee. helpless thing ! 
That, in the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What 'comes o' thee 1 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e V 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to 
his mind; and as the midnight moon, "muf- 
fled in clouds," casts her dreary light on his 
window, thoughts of a darker and more mel- 
ancholy nature crowd upon him. In this state 

♦See the first Idylliun of Theocritus. 



of mind, he hears a voice pouring through the 
gloom a solemn and plaintive strain of reflec- 
tion. The mourner compares the fury of the 
elements with that of man to his brother man, 
and finds the former light in the balance. 

" See stern oppression's iron grip. 

Or mad ambition's gory hand. 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Wo, want, and murder, o'er the land I" 

He pursues this tram of reflection through a 
variety of particulars, in the course of which 
he introduces the following animated apostro- 
phe : 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create," 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 

Ill-satisfi'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep. 

While ihro' the ragged roof and chinky wall. 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap I 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
the poem is noble, though the execution is un- 
equal, and the versification defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The 
Cotter' s Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to 
the first rank. The former's Ingle of Fergus- 
son evidently suggested the plan of this poem, 
as has already been mentioned; but after the plan 
was formed, Burns trusted entirely to his own 
powers for the execution. Fergusson's poem 
is certainly very beautiful. It has all the charms 
which depend on rural characters and manners 
happily portrayed, and exhibited under circum- 
stances highly grateful to the imagination. The 
Farmer'' single begins with describing the re- 
turn of evening. The toils of the day are over, 
and the farmer retires to his comfortable fire- 
side. The reception which he and his men- 
servants receive from the careful house-wife, 
is pleasingly described. After their supper is 
over, they begin to talk on the rural events of 
the day : 

" Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock wooed Jenny here to be his bride ; 

And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride. 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide." 

The " Guidame'' is next introduced as form- 
ing a circle round the fire, in the midst of her 
grand-children, and while she spins from the 
rock, and the spindle plays on her " russet lap," 
she is relating to the young ones tales of witch- 
es and ghosts. The poet exclaims : 

" O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 

Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return. 
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; 

The mind's aye cradled when the grave is near." 

In the meantime the farmer, wearied with 
the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at 
length on the Settle, a sort of rustic couch, 
which extends on one side of the fire, and the 
cat and house-dog leap upon it to receive his 
caresses. Here, resting at his ease, he gives 
his directions to his men-servants for the suc- 
ceeding day. The house-wife follows his ex- 
ample, and gives her orders to the maidens. 
By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to fail ; 
the fire runs low ; sleep steals on this rustic 
group ; and they move off' to enjoy their peace- 
ful slumbers. The poet concludes by bestow- 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



217 



ing his blessings on the " husbandman and all 
his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting pas- 
toral. It possesses everything required in this 
species of composition. We might have per- 
haps said everything that it admits, had not 
Burns written his Cotter's Saturday Night. 

The cottager returning from his labors, has 
no servants to accompany him, to partake of 
his fare, or to receive his instructions. The 
circle which he joins, is composed of his wife 
and children only ; and if it admits of less va- 
riety, it affords an opportunity for representing 
scenes that more strongly interest the affec- 
tions. The younger children running to meet 
him, and clambering round his knee ; the elder, 
returning from their weekly labors with the 
neighboring farmers, dutifully depositing their 
little sains with their parents, and receiving 
their father's blessing and instructions ; the 
incidents of the courtship of Jenny, their eld- 
est daughter, "woman grown;" are circum- 
stances of the most interesting kind, which 
are most happily delineated ; and after their 
frugal supper, the representation of these hum- 
ble cottagers forming a wider circle round their 
hearth, and uniting in the worship of God, is 
a picture the most deeply affecting of any 
which the rural muse ever presented to the 
view. Burns was admirably adapted to this 
delineation. Like all men of genms, he was 
of the temperament of devotion, and the pow- 
ers of memory co-operated in this instance with 
the sensibility of his heart, and the fervor of 
his imagination.* The Cotter s Saturday Night 
is tender and moral, it is solemn and devotion- 
al, and rises at length into a strain of grandeur 
and sublimity, which modern poetry has not 
surpassed. 'I'he noble sentiments of patriot- 
ism with which it concludes, correspond with 
the rest of the poem. In no age or country 
have the pastoral muses breathed such elevated 
accents, if the Messiah of Pope be excepted, 
which is indeed a pastoral in form only. It is 
to be regretted that Burns did not employ his 
genius on other subjects of the same nature, 
which the manners and customs of the Scottish 
peasantry would have amply supplied. Such 
poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of 
pleasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into 
the heart, and is calculated far beyond any oth- 
er human means, for giving permanence to the 
scenes and characters it so exquisitely de- 
scribes. t 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to offer 
a few observations on the lyric productions of 
Burns. His compositions of this kind are 
chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, 
and always after the model of the Scottish 
songs, on the general character and moral in- 
fluence of which, some observations have al- 
ready been offered. t We may hazard a few 
more particular remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland, 
it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has nowhere 
imitated them, a circumstance to be regretted, 
since in this species of composition, from its 
admitting the more terrible as well as the soft- 
er graces of poetry, he was eminently qualified 
to have excelled. The Scottish songs which 

*Tlie reader will recollect that the cotter was 
Burns' lather. See p. 29. 
t See Appendix, No. II. Note D. fSec page 6. 



served as models for Burns, are almost without 
exception pastoral, or rather rural. Such of them 
as are comic, frequently treat of a rustic court- 
ship or a country wedding : or they describe the 
difterences of opinion which arise in married life. 
Burns has imitated this species, and surpassed 
his models. The song, beginning, " Husband, 
husband, cease your strife,"* may be cited in 
support of this observation.! His other comic 
songs are equal in merit. In the rural songs 
of Scotland, whether humorous or tender, the 
sentiments are given to particular characters, 
and, very generally, the incidents are referred 
to particular scenery. This last circumstance 
may be considered as the distinguished feature 
of the Scottish songs, and on it a considerable 
part of their attraction depends. On all occa- 
sions the sentiments, of whatever nature, are 
delivered in the character of the person princi- 
pally interested. If love be described, it is not 
as It IS observed, but as it is felt ; and the pas- 
sion is delineated under a particular aspect. 
Neither is it the flercer impulses of desire that 
are expressed, as in the celebrated ode of Sap- 
pho, the model of so many modern songs, but 
those gentler emotions of tenderness and affec- 
tion, which do not entirely absorb the lover; 
but permit him to associate his emotions with 
the charms of external nature, and breathe the 
accents of [)urity and innocence, as well as of 
love. In these respects the love-songs of Scot- 
l.ind are honorably distinguished from the most 
admired classical compositions of the same 
kind : and by such associations, a variety, as 
well as liveliness, is given to the representation 
of this passion, which are not to be found in 
the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of 
any other nation. Many of the love-songs of 
Scoiland describe scenes of rural courtship; 
many may be considered as invocations from 
lovers to their mistresses. On such occasions 
a degree of interest and reality is given to the 
sentiments, by the spot destined to these hap- 
py interviews being particularized. The lovers 
perhaps meet at the Bush ahoon Traquair, or 
on the Baiiks of Ettrick ; the nymphs are in- 
voked to wander among the wilds ot' Jiosli?i, or 
the woods of liivermay. Nor is the spot mere- 
ly pointed out ; the scenery is often described 
as well as the characters, so as to present a 
complete picture to the fancy. t Thus the max- 

* See Poems, p. 71. 

fThe dialogues between Imsbands and tlieir wives, 
wliicii form Hie subjects of liie Scottish songs, are 
almost all ludicrous and satirical, and in these con- 
tests the lady is generally victorious. From the 
collt'ctions of Mr. Pinkt-rton we find that the comic 
muse of !?coilaiid delighted in such representations 
from very early times, in her rude dramatic efforts, 
as well as in her rustic songs. 

:t One or two examples may illustrate this observ- 
ation. A Scottish song, written about a hundred 
years ago, begns thus : 

'' On Ettrick banks, on a summer's niglit. 

At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame, 
1 met my la.'^sie, braw and tight. 

Come wading barefoot a' her lane ; 
My heart grew light, I rnii, I flung 

My arms about her lily neck. 
And kiss'd and clasped there fu' lane. 

My words they were na mony feck."* 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to re- 
late the language he employed with his Lowland 

* Mony feck, not very many. 



218 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



im of Horace ut pictura poesis, is faithfully ob- 
served by these rustic bards, who are guided 
by the same impulse of nature and sensibility 
which influenced the father of epic poetry, on 
whose example the precept of the Roman poet 
was, perhaps, founded. By this means the im- 
agination is employed to interest the feelings. 
When we do not conceive distinctly we do not 
sympathize deeply in any human affection ; 
and we conceive nothing in the abstract. Ab- 
straction, so useful in morals, and so essential 
in science, must be abandoned when the heart 
is to be subdued by the powers of poetry and 
eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of 
society paint individual objects ; and hence, 
among other causes, the easy access they ob- 
tain to the heart. Generalization is the vice 
of poets whose learning overpowers their ge- 
nius ; of poets of a refined and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much in 
the Scottish songs, while it contributes greatly 
to the interest they excite, also shows that they 
have originated among a people in the earlier 
stages of society. Where this form of compo- 
sition appears in songs of a modern date, it indi- 
cates that they were written after the ancient 
model.* 

The Scottish songs are of a very unequal po- 

inaid to win her heart, and to persuade her to fly 
with him to the Highland hills, tliere to sh.ire his 
fortune. The sentiments are in themselves beauti- 
ful. But we feel them with double force, wliile we 
conceive that they were addressed by a lover to his 
mistress, whom he met all alone, on a summer's 
evening, by the banks of a beautiful stream, which 
some of us have actually seen, and which all of us 
can paint to our imagination. Let us take another 
example. It is now a nymph that speaks. Hear how 
she expresses herself: 

"How blythe each morn was I to see 
My swain come o'er the hill ! 

He skipt the burn, and flew to me, 
I met him with guid will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Na- 
ture. We see a shepherdess standing by the .side of 
a brook, watching her lover as he descends the op- 
posite hill. He bounds lightly along ; he approaches 
nearer and nearer ; he leaps the brook, and flies into 
her arms. In the recollection of these circumstances 
the surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the 
fair mourner, and she bursts into the following ex- 
clamation : 

" O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, 

The broom of the Covvden-Knowes I 
I wish 1 were with my dear swain, 
Wilh his pipe and my ewes." 

Thus the individual spot of this happy interview is 
pointed out, and the picture is con)pleted. 

*Thatthe dramat c form of writing characterizes 
the productions ofan early, or, what amounts to the 
same thing, of a rude stage of society, may be illus- 
trated by a leftrence to the most ancient composi- 
tions that we know of, the Hebrew scriptures, and 
the writings of Homer. Tiie form oidialogue is adopt- 
ed in the old Scotti-sh ballads even innarration, when- 
ever the situations described become interesting. 
This sometimes produces a very striking elTect, of 
which an instance may be given from the ballad of 
Edoim'' Oort/on, a composition apparently of the six- 
teenth century. The i=tory of the ballad is shortly 
this. — The castle of Rhode-, in ihe absence of its lord, 
is attacked by the robber Edom o' Gordon. The lady 
stands on ht^r defence, heats off" the assailants, and 
wounds Gordon, who, in his rage, orders the castle 
to be set on fire. That his orders are carr ed into ef- 
fect, we learn from the expot^tulation of the lady, who 
is represented as standins" on the battlements, and 
remonstrating on this barbarity. She is intenupied — 



etical merit, and this inequality extends to trie 
different parts of the same song. Those that are 
humorous, or characteristic of manners, have in 
general the merit of copying nature ; those that 
are serious, are tender, and often sweetly inter- 
esting, but seldom exhibit high powers of imag- 
ination, which indeed do not easily find a place 
in this species of composition. The alliance of 
the words of the Scottish songs with the music, 
has in some instances given to the former a pop- 
ularity, which otherwise they would not have 
obtained. 

The association of the words and the music 
of these songs, with the more beautiful parts of 
the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same 
effect. It has given them not merely populari- 
ty, but permanence; it has imparted to the 
works of man some portion of the durability of 
the works of nature. If, from our imperfect expe- 
rience of the past, we may judge with any con- 
fidence respecting the future, songs of this de- 
scription are of all others least likely to die. In 
the changes of language they may no doubt suf- 
fer change; but the associated strain of senti- 
ment and of music will perhaps survive, while 
the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yar- 
row, or the yellow broom waves on Cowden- 
Knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song-writing 
were not very successful. His habitual inatten- 
tion to the exactness of rhymes and the harmo- 
ny of numbers, arising probably from the mod- 
els on which his versification was formed, were 
faults likely to appear to more disadvantage in 
this species of composition, than in any other; 
and we may also remark, that the strength of 
his imagination, and the exuberance of his sen- 
sibility, were with difficulty restrained within 
the limits of gentleness, delicacy, and tender- 
ness, which seemed to be assigned to the love- 
songs of his nation. Burns was better adapted 
by nature for following, in such compositions, 
the model of the Grecian, than that of the Scot- 
tish muse. By study and practice he however 
surmounted all these obstacles. In his earlier 
songs, there is some ruggedness ; but this grad- 
ually disappears in his successive efforts ; and 
some of his later compositions of this kind may 
be compared, in polished delicacy, with the fin- 
est songs in our language, while in the eloquence 
of sensibility they surpass them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he fol- 
lowed and excelled, are often dramatic, and for 
the greater part amatory ; and the beauties of 
rural nature are every where associated with the 
passions and emotions of the mind. Disdaining 
to copy the works of others, he has not, like 
some poets of great name, admitted into his de 

"O then bespake her little son, 

Sate on his nourice knee ; 
Says, 'mither dear, gi' owre this house. 

For the reek it smitliers me.' 
* I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, 

Sae wad I a' my fee. 
For ae blast o' the wesilin wind, 

To blavv the reek frae thee." 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-songs, and 
the dramatic form wliich prevails so generally in 
tliem, probably ar ses from iheir being the descend- 
ants and successors of the ancient ballads. In the 
beautiful modern song of Jilmy of Costle-Cnnj, the 
dramatic form has a very happy tfi'ect. The same 
may be said of Dovald and Flora, and Covie under 
my plaidie, by the same author. Mr. Macniol 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



219 



scriplions exotic imagery. The landscapes he 
has painted, and the objects with whicii they 
are embellished, are, in every single instance, 
Buch as are to be found in his own country. In 
a mountainous region, especially when it is com- 
paratively rude and naked, the most beauti- 
ful scenery will always be found in the valleys, 
and on the banks of the wooded streams. Such 
scenery is peculiarly interesting at the close of 
a summer-day. As we advance northwards, the 
number of the days of summer, indeed, dimin- 
ishes; but from this cause, as well as from the 
mildness of the temperature, the attraction of 
the season increases, and the summer-night be- 
comes still more beautiful. The greater obli- 
quity of the sun's path on the ecliptic prolongs 
the grateful season of twilight to the midniglit 
hours: and the shades of the evening seem to 
mingle with the morning's dawn. The rural po- 
ets of Scotland, as may be expected, associate 
in their songs the expressions of passion, with 
the most beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest 
season of the year, and generally in those hours 
of the evening when the beauties of nature are 
most interesting.* 

To all these adventitious circumstances, on 
which so much of the effect of poetry depends, 
great attention is paid by Burns. There is scarce- 
ly a single song of his, in which particular scene- 
ry is not described, or allusions made to natural 
objects, remarkable for beauty or interest : and 
though his descriptions are not so full as are 
sometimes met with in the older Scottish songs, 
they are in the highest degree appropriate and 
interesting. Instances in proof of this might be 
quoted from the Lea Big, Hishland Mary , The 
Soldier's Return, Logan Water ; from that 
beautiful pastoral Bonnie Jean, and a great num- 
ber of others. Occasionally the force of his ge- 
nius carries him beyond the usual bounderies of 
Scottish song, and the natural objects introdu- 
ced have more of the character of sublimity. 
An instance of this kind is noticed by Mr. 
Syme,t and many others might be adduced : 

" Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar : 
There would I weep my woes, 
♦ A lady, of whose genius the editor entertains high 
admiratioii (Mrs. Barbaiild.) has fallen into an error 
in this respect. In her prefatory address to the works 
of Collins, speaking of the natural objects that may 
be employed to give interest to the descriptions of 
passion, she observes, "they present an inexhausti- 
ble variety, from the Song of Solomon, breathing of 
cassia, myrrh, and cinnamon, to the Gentle Shepherd 
of Ramsay, whose damsels carry their milking pails 
through the frosts and snows of their less genial, but 
not less pastoral country." The damsels of Unmsay 
do not walk in the mid--t of frost and snow. Almost 
all the scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are laid in open 
air, amidst beautiful natural objects, and at the most 
genial season of the year. Ramsay introduces all hia 
acts wiih a prefatory description to assure us of this 
The fault of the climate of lit ilain is not, that it does 
not afford us the beauties of summer, but that the 
season of such beauties is comparatively short, and 
even uncertain. There are days and nights, evtrn in 
the northern division of the island, which equal, or 
perhaps surpass, what are to be found in the latitude 
of Sicily, or of Greece. Buchanan, when he wrote 
his exqui:jite Ode to May, felt the charm as well as 
the transienlnes3 of these happy days. 
Salve fugacis gloria seculi, 
Salve secunda digna dies nota, 
Salve vetustse vita; imago, 
Et specimen venientis .^vi. 
tSee pp. 196,197. 



There seek my last repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close 
Ne'er to wake more.' 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in a 
winter-night, the " wan moon" is described as 
" setting behind the white waves ;" in another, 
the " storms " are apostrophized, and command- 
ed to "rest in the cave of their slumbers;" on 
several occasions the genius of B urns loses sight 
entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a 
strain of uniform sublimity. Instances of this 
kind appear in Libertie, a Visioti ; and in his 
two war-songs, Bruce to his Troops, and in the 
Song of Death. These last are of a description 
of which we have no other in our language. 
The martial songs of our nation are not milita- 
ry, but naval, if we were to seek a compari- 
son of these songs of Burns with others of i 
similar nature, we must have recourse to the 
poetry of ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to the 
songs of Scotland. In his compositions, the 
poetry equals, and sometimes surpasses the mu- 
sic. He has enlarged the poetical scenery of his 
country. Many of her rivers and mountains, 
formerly unknown to the muse, are now conse- 
crated by his immortal verse. The Doon, the 
Lugar, the Ayr, the Niih, and the Cluden, will, 
in tuture, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the 
Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their 
borders will be trodden with new and superior 
emotions. 

'i'he greater part of the songs of Burns were 
written after he removed into the county of 
Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits 
formed in early life, he usually composed while 
walking in the open air. When engaged in 
writing these songs, his favorite walks were 
on the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, 
particularly near the ruins of Lincluden Ab- 
bey ; and this beautiful scenery he has very 
happily described under various aspects, as it 
appears during the softness and serenity of 
evening, and during the stillness and solemnity 
of a moonlight-night.* 

There is no species of poetry, the produc- 
tions of the drama not excepted, so much cal- 
culated to influence the morals, as well as the 
happiness of a people, as those popular verses 
which are associated with national airs ; and 
which being learned in the years of infancy, 
make a deep impression on the heart before the 
evolution of the powers of the understanding. 
The compositions of Burns of this kind, now 
presented in a collected form to the world, 
make a most important addition to the popular 
songs of his nation. Like all his other writ- 
ings, they exhibit independence of sentiment ; 
they are peculiarly calculated to increase those 
lies which bind generous hearts to their native 
soil, and to the domestic circle of their infan- 
cy ; and to cherish those sensibilities which, 
under due restriction, form the purest happi- 
ness of our nature. If in his unguarded mo- 
ments he composed some songs on which this 
praise cannot be bestowed, let us hope that they 
will speedily be forgotten. In several in- 
stances, where Scottish airs were allied to 
words objectionable in point of delicacy. Burns 
has substituted others of a purer character. On 
such occasions, without changing the subject, 
he has changed the sentiments. A proof of 
* See Poems, p. 72; and the Vision, p. U 



220 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



this may be seen in the air of John Anderson 
my Joe, which is now united to words that 
breathe a strain of conjugal tenderness, that is 
as highly moral as it is exquisitely affecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more strik- 
ing proof of the strength of Burns' genius, 
than the general circulation of his poems in 
England, notwithstanding the dialect in which 
the greater part are written, and which might 
be supposed to render them here uncouth or 
obscure. In some instances he has used this 
dialect on subjects of a sublime nature ; but in 
general he confines it to sentiments or descrip- 
tions of a tender or humorous kind ; and where 
he rises into elevation of thought, he assumes 
a purer Finglish style. The singular faculty he 
possessed of mingling in the same poem, hu- 
morous sentiments and descriptions, whh im- 
agery of a sublime and terrific nature, enabled 
him to use this variety of dialect on some occa- 
sions with striking effect. His poem of Tarn 
o' Shanter affords an instance of this. There 
he passes from a scene of the lowest humor, to 
situations of the most awful and terrible kind. 
He is a musician that runs from the lowest to 
the highest of his keys ; and the use of the 
Scottish dialect enables him to add two addi- 
tional notes to the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabi- 
tants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- 
proximate in their speech to the pure English 
standard; and this has made it difficult to write 
in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in them 
some feelings of disgust, which in England are 
scarcely felt. An Englishman who under- 
stands the meaning of the Scottish words, is 
not offended, nay, on certain subjects, he is 
perhaps pleased with the rustic dialect, as he 
may be with the Doric Greek of Theocritus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own country, 
if a man of education, and more especially if a 
literary character, has banished such words from 
his writings, and has attempted to banish them 
from his speech ; and being accustomed to hear 
them from the vulgar, daily, does not easily 
admit of their use in poetry, which requires a 
style elevated and ornamental. A dislike of 
this kind is, however, accidental, not natural. 
It is one of the species of disgust which we 
feel at seeing a female of high birth, in the 
dress of a rustic ; which, if she be really young 
and beautiful, a little habit will enable us to 
overcome. A lady who assumes such a dress, 
puts her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She 
rejects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of 
fashion ; she possibly abandons the grace of 
elegant and flowing drapery ; but her native 
charms remain the more striking, perhaps, 
because less adorned ; and to these she trusts 
for fixing her empire on those affections over 
which fashion has no sway. The dress of the 
beautiful rustic becomes hself beautiful, and 
establishes a new fashion for the young and 
gay. And when in after ages, the contempla- 
tive observer shall view her picture in the gal- 
lery that contains the portraits of the beauties 
of successive centuries, each in the dress of 
her respective day, her drapery will not devi- 
ate, more than that of her rivals, from the 
standard of his taste, and he will give the 
palm to her who excels in the lineaments of na- 
ture. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of 



his country, and by them their native dialect is 
universally relished. To a numerous class of 
the natives of Scotland of another description, 
it may also be considered as attractive in a dif- 
ferent point of view. Estranged from their 
native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the 
idiom of their country unites with the senti- 
ments and the descriptions on which it is em- 
ployed, to recall to their minds the interesting 
scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken many 
pleasing, many tender recollections. Literary 
men, residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, can- 
not judge on this point for one hundred and 
fifty thousand of their expatriated country- 
men.* 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one spe- 
cies of poetry, the composition of songs, the 
taste of the public has been for some time re- 
conciled. The dialect in question excels, as 
has already been observed, in the copiousness 
and exactness of its terms for natural objects ; 
and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Do- 
ric simplicity, which is very generally approv- 
ed. Neither does the regret seem well founded 
which some persons of taste have expressed, 
that Burns used this dialect in so many other 
of his compositions. His declared purpose was 
to paint the manners of rustic life among his 
" humble compeers," and it is not easy to con- 
ceive, that this could have been done with equal 
humor and effect, if he had not adopted their 
idiom. There are some, indeed, who will 
think the subject too low for poetry. Persons 
of this sickly taste will find their delicacies 
consulted in many a polite and learned author : 
let them not seek for gratification in the rough 
and vigorous lines, in the unbridled humor, or 
in the overpowering sensibility of this bard of 
nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of Burns 
would be no easy task. Many persons, after- 
wards distinguished in literature, have been 
born in as humble a situation in life; but it. 
would be difficult to find any other who, while 
earning his subsistence by daily labor, has 
written verses which have attracted and retain- 
ed universal attention, and which are likely to 
give the author a permanent and distinguished 
place among the followers of the muses. If he 
is deficient in grace, he is distinguished for ease 
as well as energy ; and these are indications of 
the higher order of genius. The father of epic 
poetry exhibits one of his heroes as excelling 
in strength, another in swiftness — to form his 
perfect warrior, these attributes are combined. 
Every species of intellectual superiority admits 
perhaps of a similar arrangement. One writer 
excels in force — another in ease ; he is superior 
to them both, in whom both these qualities are 
united. Of Homer himself it may be said, 

* These observations are excited by some remarks 
of respectable correspondints of the description al- 
luded to. This calculation of the number of Scotch- 
men living out of Scotland is not altogether arbitra- 
ry, and it is probably below the truth, li is, in 
some degree, founded on the proportion between 
the number of the sexes in Scotland, as it appears 
from the invaluable Statistics of Sir John Sinclair. 
For Scotchmen of this description, more particular- 
ly, Burns seems to have written his song, beginning, 
Their groves o' siceet m7jrtle,H beauiiful strain, whicJi, 
it may be confidently predicted, wll be sung with 
equal or super or inierest on ihe banks of the Gan- 
ges or of tlie Mississippi, as on those of the Tay or 
the Tweed. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



221 



that, like his own Achilles, he surpasses his 
competitors in nobility as well as strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of his un- 
derstanding, and in the sensibility of his heart ; 
and these will be found to infuse the living prin- 
ciple into all the works of genius which seem 
destined to immortality. His sensibility had an 
uncommon range. He was alive to every spe- 
cies of emotion. He is one of the few poets 
that can be mentioned, who have at once excell- 
ed in humor, in tenderness, and in sublimity; a 
praise unknown to the ancients, and which in 
modern times is only due to Ariosto, to Shak- 
speare, and perhaps to Voltaire. To compare 



the writings of the Scottish peasant with the 
works of these giants in literature, might appear 
presumptuous; yet it may be asserted that he 
has displayed the foot of Hercules. How near 
he might have approached them by proper cul- 
ture, with lengthened years, and under happier 
auspices, it is not for us to calculate. But while 
we run over this melancholy story of his life, it 
is impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity 
of his fortune ; and as we survey the records of 
his mind, it is easy to see, that out of such ma- 
terials have been reared the fairest and the most 
durable of the monuments of genius. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



TO 



DR. CURRIE'S 
EDITION OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



It is impossible to dismiss this volume* of the 
Correspondence of our Bard, without some anx- 
iety as to the reception it may meet wuh. The 
experiment we are making has not often been 
tried ; perhaps on no occasion has so large a por- 
tion of the recent and unpremeditated effusions 
of a man of genius been committed to the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a consider- 
able number were transmitted for publication, 
by the individuals to whom they were address- 
ed ; but very few have been printed entire. It 
will easily be believed, that in a series of letters 
written without the least view to publication, va- 
rious passages were found unfit tor the press, 
from different considerations. It will also be 
readily sui)posed, that our poet, writing nearly 
at the same time, and under the same feelings, 
to diff*erent individuals, would sometimes fall 
into the same train of sentiment and forms of 
expression. To avoid, therefore the tedious- 
ness of such repetitions, it has been found neces- 
sary to miatilate many of the individual letters. 
and sometimes to exscind parts of great delica- 
cy — the unbridled effusions of panegyric and re- 
gard. But though many of the letters are print- 
ed from origmals furnished by the persons to 
whom they were addressed, others are printed 
from first draughts, or sketches, found among 
the papers of our Bard. Though in general no 
man committed his thoughts to his correspond- 
ents with less consideration or effort than Burns, 
yet it appears that in some instances he was 
dissatisfied witn his first essays, and wrote out 
his communications in a fairer character, or 
perhaps in more studied language. In the chaos 
of his manuscripts, some of the original sketch- 
es were found ; and as these sketches, though 
less perfect, are fairly to be considered as the 
offspring of his mind, where they have seemed 

* Dr. Ciirrie's edition of Burns' Works was origi- 
nally published in four volumes, of which the follow- 
ing Correspondence formed the second. 



in themselves worthy of a place in this volume, 
we have not hesitated to insert them, though 
they may not always correspond exactly with 
the letters transmitted, which have been lost or 
withheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have form- 
ed an intention of making a collection of his 
letters for the amusement of a friend. Accord- 
ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of 
them into a book, which he presented to Rob- 
ert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these 
was the account of his life, addressed to Dr. 
Moore, and printed in the first volume. In 
copying from his imperfect sketches, {it does 
not appear that he had the letters actually sent 
to his correspondents before him,) he seems to 
have occasionally enlarged his observations, and 
altered his expressions. In such instances his 
emendations have been adopted; but in truth 
there are but five of llie letters thus selected by 
the poet, to be found in the present volume, the 
rest being thought of inferior merit, or other- 
wise unfit for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the editor has found 
some corrections of grammar necessary; but 
these have been very few, and such as may be 
supposed to occur in the careless effusions even 
of literary characters, who have not been in the 
habit of carrying their compositions to the 
press. These corrections have never been ex- 
tended to any habitual modes of expression of 
the poet, even where his phraseology may seem 
to violate the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of 
our language, which he wrote in general with 
great accuracy. Some difference will indeed be 
found in this respect in his earlier and in bis 
later compositions; and this volume will exhibit 
the progress of his style, as well as the history 
of his mind. In the fourth edition, several new 
letters were introduced, and some of inferior 
importance were omitted. 

222 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS. 



LETTERS, &c 



No. I. 

TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 

STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

Loehlee, 15tA January, 1783. 
Dear Sir, 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter, without putting you to that expense which 
any production of mine would but ill repay, I 
embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have 
not forgotten, nor never will forget, the many 
obligations I lie under to your kindness and 
friendship. 

I do not doubt, sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the pains 
of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; 
and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with 
such a recital as you would be pleased with ; 
but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. 
I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious ha- 
bits ; and in this respect, I hope my conduct 
will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; 
but as a man of the world, I am most misera- 
bly deficient. One would have thought that 
bred as I have been, under a father who has 
figured pretty well as un homme des affaires, I 
might have been what the world calls a push- 
ing, active fellow; but, to tell you the truth, 
sir, there is hardly anything more my reverse. 
I seem to be one sent into the world to see, and 
observe; and I very easily compound with the 
knave who tricks me of my money, if there be 
anything original about him which shows me 
human nature in a different light from anything 
I have seen before. In short, the joy of my 
heart is to study "men, their manners, and their 
ways ;" and for this darling object, I cheerfully 
sacrifice every other consideration. I am quite 
indolent about those great concerns that set the 
bustling busy sons of care agog ; and if I have 
to answer for the present hour, I am very easy 
with regard to anything further. Even the last 
worthy shift of the unfortunate and the wretch- 
ed, does not much terrify me : I know that even 
then my talent for what country-folks call " a 
sensible crack," when once it is sanctified by a 
hoary head, would procure me so much esteem, 
that even then — I would learn to be happy.* 

*The last shift aliuded to here, must be the con- 
dition of an itinerant beggar. 
223 



However, I am under no apprehensions about 
that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as an ex- 
tremely delicate constitution permits, I am not 
lazy ; and in many things, especially in tavern- 
matters, a strict economist ; not indeed for the 
sake of money, but one of the principal parts 
in my composition is a kind of pride of stom- 
ach, and I scorn to fear the face of any man 
living; above everything, I abhor, as hell, the 
idea of sneaking into a corner to avoid a dun — 
possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, whom in 
my heart I despise and detest. 'T is this, and 
this alone, that endears economy to me. In 
the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. 
My favorite authors are of the sentimental kind, 
such as Shenstone, particularly his Elegies ; 
Thomson ; Man of Feeling, a book I prize next 
to the Bible ; Man of the World ; Sterne, es- 
pecially his Sentimental Journey; Mc'Pher- 
so7i''s Ossian, &c. These are the glorious mo- 
dels after which I endeavor to form my con- 
duct ; and 't is incongruous, 't is absurd, to 
suppose that a man whose mind glows with the 
sentiments lighted up at their sacred flame — 
the man whose heart distends with benevolence 
to all the human race — he *' who can soar 
above this little scene of things," can he de- 
scend to mind the paltry concerns about which 
the terrsefilial race fret, and fume, and vex 
themselves ? O how the glorious triumph 
swells my heart! I forget that I am a poor 
insignificant devil, unnoticed and unknown, 
stalking up and down fairs and markets, when 
I happen to be in them, reading a page or two 
of mankind, and *' catching the manners living 
as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle 
me on every side as an idle incumbrance in 
their way. But I dare say I have by this time 
tired your patience ; so I shall conclude with 
!)egging you to give Mrs. Murdoch — not my 
compliments, for that is a mere common-place 
story, but my warmest, kindest wishes for her 
welfare ; and accept of the same for yourself 
from, Dear Sir, Yours, &,c. 



Noll. 

The following is taken from the MS. Prose present- 
ed by our Bard to Mr. Riddel. 

On rummaging over some old papers, I 
lighted on a MS. of my early years, in which 



224 



LETTERS 



I had determined to write myself out, as I was 
placed by fortune among a class of men to 
whom my ideas would have been nonsense. I 
had meant that the book should have lain by 
me, in the fond hope that, some time or other, 
even after I was no more, my thoughts would 
fall into the hands of somebody capable of ap- 
preciating their value. It sets off thus : 

Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Po- 
etry, 4-c., by R. B. — a man who had little art 
in making money, and still less in keeping it ; 
but was, however, a man of some sense, a 
great deal of honesty, and an unbounded good 
will to every creature, rational and irrational. 
As he was but little indebted to scholastic edu- 
cation, and bred at a plow-tail, his performances 
must be strongly tinctured with his unpolished 
rustic way of life ; but as I believe they are 
really his own, it may be some entertainment 
to a curious observer of human nature, to see 
how a plowman thinks and feels, under the 
pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with 
the like cares and passions, which, however 
diversified by the modes and manners of life, 
operate pretty much alike, I believe, on all the 
species. 

"There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a figure, so much as 
an opinion of their own abilities, to put them 
upon recording their observations, and allow- 
ing them the same importance, which they do 
to those which appear in print." — Shenstone. 
" Pleasing, when youth is long expir'd, to trace 

The forms our pencil or our pen designed ! 
Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 

Such the soft image of our youthful mind."— /6iV/. 

April, 1783. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said against 
love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads 
a young, inexperienced mind into ; still I think 
it in a great measure deserves the highest enco- 
miums that have been passed upon it. If any- 
thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or 
transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, 
in the company of the mistress of his heart, 
when she repays him with an equal return of 
affection. 



August. 
There is certainly some connection between 
love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, I 
have always thought a fine touch of nature, 
that passage in a modern love composition : 
"As tow'rd her cot he jogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part, I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turning poet, till I got 
once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and 
song were, in a manner, the spontaneous lan- 
guage of my heart. 

September. 

I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well under those calamities, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our own follies, or 
crimes have made us miserable and wretched, 
to bear up with manly firmness, and at the 
same time have a proper penetential sense of 



our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-com- 
mand. 

" Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish. 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance the mind 
Has this to say — ' It was no deed of mine ;' 
But when to all the evils of misfortune 
This sting is added—' Blame thy foolish self 1' 
Or worser far, the pangs ot keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved oihers; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us. 
Nay. more, that very love their cause of ruin I 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purposes of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 
O happy 1 happy ! enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul !" 



March, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my ex- 
perience of human life, that every man, even 
the worst, has something good about him ; 
though very often nothing else than a happy tem- 
perament of constitution inclining him to this or 
that virtue. For this reason, no man can say in 
what degree any other person, besides himself, 
can be, with strict justice, called wicked. Let 
any of the strictest character for regularity of 
conduct among us, examine impartially how 
many vices he has never been guilty of, not from 
any care or vigilance, but for want of opportun- 
ity, or some accidental circumstance interven- 
ing ; how many of the weaknesses of mankind 
he has escaped, because he was out of the line 
of such temptation; and, what often, if not al- 
ways, weighs more than all the rest, how nmch 
he is indebted to the world's good opinion, be- 
cause the world does not know all. I say, any 
man who can thus think, will scan the failings, 
nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around 
him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that 
part of mankind commonly known by the ordi- 
nary phrase of blackguards, sometimes farther 
than was consistent with the safety of my char- 
acter ; those who, by thoughtless prodigality 
or headstrong passions have been driven to ruin. 
I'hough disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes 
" stained with guilt, ***** *^" \ have yet 
found among them, in not a few instances, some 
of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, 
disinterested friendship ; and even modesty. 



April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- 
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to 
myself, or some here and there such other out- 
of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleas- 
ure I take in the season of winter, more than the 
rest of the year. This, I believe, may be part- 
ly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a 
melancholy cast ; but there is something even 
in the 

"Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," — 



LETTERS 



225 



which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favoruble to every thing great and noble. 'I'here 
is scarcely any earshly object gives me more — 
I do not know if I should call it pleasure — but 
son)eiliing which exalis me, something which 
enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered 
side ot a wood, or higli plantation, in a cloudy 
winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling 
among the trees and raving over the plain. It 
is my best season for devotion ; my mind is rapt 
in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pom- 
pous language of the Hebrew bard, " walks on 
the wings of the wind." In one of these sea- 
sons, just after a train of misfortunes, I compos- 
ea the following : 
The wintry west extends iiis blast, &c. — Poems p. 29. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses 
writ without any real passion, are the most nau- 
seous of all conceits ; and I have often thought 
that no man can be a proper critic of love com- 
position, except he himself, in one or more in- 
stances, have been a warm votary of this passion. 
As I have been all along a miserable dupe to 
love, and have been led into a thousand weak- 
nesses and follies by it, for that reason 1 put the 
more confidence in my critical skill, in distin- 
guishing foppery and conceit from real passion 
and nature. Whether the following song will 
stand the test, I will not pretend to say, because 
it is my own ; only I can say it was, at the time, 
genuine from the hearc. 

Behind yon hills, &c. — See Poems, p. 43. 



I the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the, 
even lawtiil, bustling and straining after the 
world's riches and honors ; and I do not see but 
that he may gain Heaven as well (which, by the 
by, is no mean consideration,) who steals through 
the vale of life, amusing himself with every lit- 
tle flower that fortune throws in his way ; as 
he who, straining straight forward, and perhaps 
bespattering all about him, gains some of life's 
little eminences; where, after all, he can only 
see, and be seen, a little more conspicuously 
than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to 
term the poor indolent devil he has left behind 
him. 



I think the whole species of young men may 
be naturally enough divided into two grand clas- 
ses, which I shall call the grave ^nd the merry; 
though, by the by, these terms do not with pro- 
priety enough express my ideas. The grave I 
shall cast into the usual division of those who 
are goaded on by the love of money, and those 
whose darling wish is to make a figure in the 
world. The merry are, the men of pleasure of 
all denominations ; the jovial lads, who have too 
much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of 
action; but, without much deliberation, follow 
the strong impulses of nature : the thoughtless, 
the careless, the indolent — in particular he, who. 
with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and 
a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals through 
life — generally, indeed, in poverty and obscuri- 
ty ; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to 
him who can sit gravely down and make a re- 
1 pining comparison between his own situation 
1 and that of others ; and lastly, to grace the quo- 
! rom, such as are, generally, those whose heads 
j are capable of all the towerings of genius, and 
' whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy 
j of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is to cultivate 

an intercourse with that Being io w\\oxn we owe 

I our life, with every enjoyment that can render 

, life delightful ; and to maintain an integritive 

I conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, 

I by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may 

i be fit members for that society of the pious and 

1 good, which reason and revelation teach us to 

expect beyond the grave ; I do not see that the 

turn of mmd and pursuits of any son of poverty 

and obscurity, are in the least more inimical to 

15 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which 
show them to be the work of a masterly hand ; 
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to 
reflect, that such glorious old bards — bards who 
very probably owed all their talents to native 
genius, yet have described the exploits of he- 
roes, the pangs of disappoinment, and the mel- 
tings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — 
that their very names (O how mortifying to a 
bard's vanity !) are now " buried among the 
things which were.'' 

O ye illustrious names unknown I who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well, the last, 
the meanest of the muses' train — one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your 
path, and with trembling wing would sometimes 
soar after you — a poor rustic bard, unknown, 
pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! 
Some of you tell us with all the charms of verse, 
that you have been unfortunate in the world — 
unfortunate in love ; he too has felt the loss of 
his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse 
than all, the loss of the woman he adored. 
Like you, all his consolation was his muse ; she 
taught him in rustic measures to complain. 
Happy could he have done it with your strength 
of imagination and flow of verse I May the turf 
lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now 
enjoy that solace and rest which this world rare- 
ly gives to the heart tuned to all the feelings of 
poesy and love ! 

This is all worth quoting in my MSS. and 
more than all. R. B. 



No. III. 
TO MR AIKEN, 

The gentleman to whom the Cotter's Saturday JSTi/rht 
is addressed. 

Ayrshire, 1795. 
Sir,— 

1 was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, 
and settled all our by-gone matters between us. 
After I had paid him all demands, I made him 
the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of 
being paid out of the first and readiest, which 
he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about twenty. seven 
pounds, and the printing about fifteen or sixteen ; 
he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will 
advance for the paper ; but this you know is out 
of my power, so farewell the hopes of a second 
edition till I grow richer ! an epocha which, 1 
think, will arrive at the payment of the British 
national debt. 



226 



LETTERS 



There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much 
in being disappointed of my second edition, as 
not having it in my power to show my gratitude 
to Mr. Bailantyne, by publishing my poem of 
The Brigs of Ayr. I would deiest myself as a 
wretch, if I thought I were capable, in a very 
long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, and ten- 
der delicacy with which he enters into my in- 
terests. I am sometimes pleased with myself 
in my grateful sensations ; but 1 believe, on the 
whole, I have very little merit in it, as my grat- 
itude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflec- 
tion, but sheerly the instinctive emotion of a 
heart too inatteniive to allow worldly maxims 
and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations 
and movements within, respecting the excise. 
There are many things plead strongly against it, 
the uncertainty of getting soon into business, 
the consequences of my follies, which may per- 
haps make it impracticable for me to stay at 
home; and besides, I have for sometime been 
pining \mder secret wretchedness, from causes 
which you pretty well know — the pang of disap- 
pointment, the sting of pride, with some wan- 
dering stabs of retnorse, which never fail to set- 
tie on my vitals like vultures, when attention is 
not called away by the calls of society, or the va- 
garies of the muse. Even in the hour of social 
mirth, my gayety is the madness of an intoxi- 
cated criminal under the hands of the execu- 
tioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; 
and to all these reasons I have only one answer 
— the feelings of a father. This, in the pres- 
ent mood I am in, overbalances everything that 
can be laid in the scale against it. 

* * =s^ # 

You may perhaps think it an extravagant fan- 
cy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home to 
my very soul ; though sceptical in some points 
of our current belief, yet, I think, I have every 
evidence for the reality of a life beyond the stint- 
ed bourne of our pi e.^^ent existence ; if so, then 
how should I, in the presence of that tremendous 
Being, the Author of existence, how should I 
meet the reproaches of t\\ose who stand to me in 
the dear relation of children, whom I deserted 
in the smiling innocency of helpless infancy ? O 
thou great, unknown Power I thou Almighty 
God I vvho has lighted up reason in my breast, 
and blessed me with immortality ! I have fre- 
quently wandered from that order and regulari- 
ty necessary for the perfection of thy works, 
Sj'et thou hast never left me nor forsaken me. 

*"Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen 
something of the storm of mischief thickening 
over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my 
friends, my benefactors, be successful in your 
applications for me, perhaps it may not be in 
my power in that way to reap the fruit of your 
friendly eflbrts What I have written in the 
pr/Bceding pages is the settled tenor of my pres- 
ent resolution ; but should inimical circumstan- 
ces forbid me closing with your kind offer, or, 
enjoying it, only threaten to entail farther mis- 
ery' — 

mm** 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for com- 
pVuint, as the world, in general, has been kind 
tOkme, fully up to my deserts. I was, for some 
time past, fast getting into the pining, distrust- 



ful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone 
unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every 
rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere 
offoriune, while, all defenceless, I looked about 
in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at 
least never with the force it deserved, that this 
world is a busy scene, and man a creature des- 
tined for a progressive struggle; and that however 
I might possess a warm heart, and inoffensive 
manners, (which last, by the by. was rather 
more than I could well boast) still, more than 
these passive qualities, there was something to 
he done. When all my school-fellows and youth- 
ful compeers (those misguided few excepted who 
joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachores 
of the human race,) were striking off with eager 
hope and earnest intention in some one or other 
of the many paths of busy life, I was standing 
' idle in the market place,' or only left the chase 
of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt 
fancy from whim to whim. 

* * * « 

You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a probability oi mending them, I stand a 
fair chance, but according to the reverend West- 
minster divines, though conviction must pre- 
cede conversion, it is very far from always im- 
plying it.* 



NO. IV. 



TO MRS 



DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. 

Ayrshire, 1786. 
Madam, — 

I am truly sorry T was not at home yesterdat- 
when I was so much honored with your ordei 
for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the litillations of applause, as the sons 
of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, 
when those whose character in life gives them 
a right to be polite judges, honor him with their 
approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquain- 
ted with me. Madam, you could not have touch- 
ed my darling heart-chord more sweetly than 
by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illus- 
trious ancestor, the Saviour of his country , 
'■ Great patriot-hero ! ill requited chief!" 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was The Life 
of Hamiibal ; the next was The History of Sir 
\ViiUnm Wallace; for several of my earlier 
years I had few other authors ; and many a so- 
litary hour have I stole out, after the laborious 
vocations of the day. to shed a tear over their 
glorious but unfortunaie stories. In those boy- 
ish days I remember in particular being struck 
with that part oi Wallace's story where these 
lines occur — 

" Syne to the Leclen wood.", when it was late. 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday the only day 
my line of life allowed, and walked half a doz- 

•Tliis letter was evidently written under the dis- 
tress of mind occasioned by our Poet's separation 
from Mrs. Burns.— £. 



LETTERS 



227 



en of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen 
wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever 
pilgrim did to Loretto ; and, as 1 explored ev- 
ery den and dell where I could suppose my he- 
roic countrymen to have lodged, 1 recollect 
(for even then I was a rhymer) that my heart 
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song 
on him in some measure equal to his merits. 



NO. V. 



TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

1786. 
Madam, — 

The hurry of my preparations for going abroad 
has hindered me from performing my promise 
BO soon as I intended. I have here sent you a 
parcel of songs, &c., which never made their ap- 
pearance, except to a friend or two at most. 
Perhaps some of them may be no great enter- 
tainment to you ; but of that I am far from be- 
ing an adequate judge. The song to the tune 
ol Etlrick Banks, you will easily see the impro- 
priety of exposing much, even in manuscript. I 
think, myself, it has some merit, both as a tol- 
erable description of one of Nature's sweetest 
scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest pie- 
ces of Nature's workmanship, the finest, mdeed, 
we know anything of, an amiable, beautiful 
young woman ;* but I have no common friend 
to procure me that permission, without which I 
would not dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, Madam, what task the 
world would assign me in this letter. The ob- 
scure bard, when any of the great condescend 
to take notice of him, should heap the altar wiih 
the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their 
own great and godlike qualities and actions, 
should be recounted with the most exaggerated 
description. This, Madam, is a task for which I 
am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disqualify- 
ing pride of heart, I know nothing of your con- 
nections in life, and have no access to where 
your real character is to be found — the company 
of your compeers ; and more, I am afraid that 
even the most refined adulation is by no means 
the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever with 
gratetul pleasure remember — the reception I got 
when I had the honor of waiting on you at Stair. 
I am little acquainted with politeness ; but I 
know a good deal of benevolence of temper and 
goodness of heart. Surely, did those in exalted 
stations know how happy they could make some 
classes of their inferiors by condescension and 
aflfabiliry, they would never stand so high, meas- 
uring out with every look, the height of their el- 
evation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. 
Stewart of Stair. 



No. VI. 

IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. AmEN. We, 

Robert Burns, by virtue of a Warrant from 
Nature, bearing date the Twenty-fifth day 
of January, Anno Domini one thousand sev- 

• The song enclosed is the one begiiniinsr, 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green. &c. 
S<e Poems, p. 70. 



en hundred and fifty-nine,* Poet Laureat 
and Bard in Chief in and over the Districts 
and Countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and 
Carrick, of old extent, To our trusty and well 
beloved William Chalmers and John M'Ad- 
AM, Students and Practitioners in the ancient 
and mysterious Science of Confounding Right 
and Wrong. 

Right Trusty, — 

Be it known unto you. That, whereas, in 
the course of our care and watchings over the 
Order and Police of all and sundry the Manu- 
facturers. Retainers, and Venders of Poe- 
sy; Bards, Poets, Poetasters, Rhymers, Jinglers, 
Songsters, Ballad-singers, &-c., &c., &c., &c., 
&c., male and female — We have discovered a 
certain * * *, nefarious, abominable, and wick- 
ed Song, or Ballad, a copy whereof We have 
here enclosed ; Our Will therefore is, that 
Ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable 
Individual of that most execrable Species, known 
by the appellation, phrase, and nickname of The 
Deil's Yell Nowte ;t and, after having caus- 
ed him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye 
shall at noontide of the day, put into the said 
wretch's merciless hands the said copy of the 
said nefarious and wicked Song, to be consum- 
ed by fire in the presence of all Beholders, ia 
abhorrence of, and terrorum to all such Compo- 
sitions and Composers. And this in no wise 
leave ye undone, but have it executed in every 
point as this Our Mandate bears, before the 
twenty-fourth current, when in person We 
hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. 

Given at Mauchline, this twentieth day of 
November, Anno Domini one thousand seven 
hundred and eighty-six. t 

God save the bard ! 



NO. VII. 



DR. BLACKLOCK TOTHE REVER- 
END MR. G. LOWRIE. 

Reverend and Dear Sir, — 

I ought to have acknowledged your favor 
long ago, not only as a testimony of your kind 
remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity 
of sharing one of the finest, and, perhaps, one of 
the most genuine entertainments, of which the 
human mind is susceptible. A number of avoca- 
tions retarded my progress in reading the poems; 
at last, however, I have finished that pleasing 
perusal. Many instances have I seen of Nature's 
force and beneficence exerted under numerous 
and formidable disadvantages ; but none equal to 
that which you have been kind enough to pre- 
sent nie. 1 here is a pathos and delicacy in his 
serious poems, a vein of wit and humor in those 
of a more iestive turn, which cannot be too 
much admired, nor too warmly approved ; and 
I think I shall never open the book without 
feeling my astonishment renewed and increas- 
ed. It was my wish to have expressed my ap- 
probation in verse ; but whether from declining 
life, or a temporary depression of spirits, it is at 
present out of my power to accomplish that 
agreeable intention, 

* His hirth-day. t Old Bachelors. 

X Enclosed was the ballad, probably Holy fVillU't 
Player. — E. 



228 



LETTERS. 



Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this Uni- 
versity, had formerly read me three of the po- 
ems, and I had desired him to get my name 
among the subscribers ; but whether this was 
done, or not, I never could learn. I have little 
intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care to 
have the poems communicated to him by the in- 
tervention of some mutual friend. It has been 
told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed 
the performances, and who sought a copy with 
diligence and ardor, that the v/hole impression 
is already exhausted. It were, therefore, much 
to be wished, for the sake of the young man, 
that a second edition, more numerous than the 
former, could immediately be printed ; as it ap- 
pears certain that its intrinsic merit, and the 
exertion of the author's friends, might give it a 
more universal circulation than anything of the 
kind which has been published within my 
memory.* 



NO. VIII. 



FROM THE REVEREND MR. 
LOWRIE. 

22d December, 1786. 
Dear Sir, — 

I last week received a letter from Dr. Black- 
lock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing 
you ; I write this to you, that you may lose no 
lime in waiting upon him, should you not yet 
have seen him. 

* * * * 

I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your rising 
fame, and I wish and expect it may tower still 
higher by the new publication. But, as a friend, 
I warn you to prepare to meet with your share 
of detraction and envy — a train that always ac- 
company great men. For your comfort, I am 
in great hopes that the number of your friends and 
admirers will increase, and that you have some 
chance of ministerial, or even ***** patron- 
age. Now, my friend, such rapid success is 
very uncommon : and do you think yourself in 
no danger of suffering by applause and a full 
purse ? Remember Solomon's advice, which he 
spoke from experience," stronger is he that con- 
quers,'' &c. Keep fast hold of your rural sim- 
plicity and purity, like Telemachus, by Men- 
tor's aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in that of 
Cyprus. I hope yoti have also Minerva with you. 
I need not tell you how much a modest diffidence 
and invincible temperance adorn the most shi- 
ning talents, and elevate the mind, and exalt and 
refine the imagination, even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from sus- 
picion or evil report. I assure you that I speak 
from love and good report, and good opinion, 
and a strong desire to see you shine as much in 
the sunshine as you have been in the shade; and 
in the practice, as you do in the theory of vir- 
tue. This is my prayer, in return for your el- 
egant composition in verse. All here join in 

*Tlie reader will perceive that this is the letter 
which produced the determination of our Bard to 
give up his scheme of goin? to the West Indies, and 
to try the fate of a new Edition of his Poems in Ed- 
inhurgh. A copy of this letter was sent by Mr. Low- 
rioto Mr. G. Hamilton, and by him communicated to 
Burns, among whose papers it was found. 

For an account of Mr. Lowrie and his family, see 
the letter of Gilbert Burns to the Editor. 



compliments and good wishes for your further 
prosperity. 



NO. IX. 



TO MR. CHALMERS. 

Edmhurgh, 21th Dec. 1786. 
My Dear Friend, — 

I confess I have sinned the sin for which 
is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to friend- 
ship — in not writing you sooner ; but of all men 
living I had intended to send you an entertain- 
ing letter ; and by all the plodding, stupid pow- 
ers, that in nodding conceited majesty preside 
over the dull routine of business — a heavily sol- 
emn oath this ! — I am, and have been ever 
since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a 
letter of humor as to write a commentary on the 
Revelations 

m * ■* * 

To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach thisparagragh, you will have suffered 
I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun 
since 1 passed Glenbuck. One blank in the ad- 
dress to Edinburgh, " Fair B ," is the heav- 
enly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, 
at whose house I had the honor to be more than 
once. There has not been any thing nearly like 
her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, 
and goodness, the great Creator has formed, 
since Milton's Eve on the first day of her exist- 
ence. 

I have sent you a parcel of subscription-bills ; 
and have written to Mr. Ballentyne and Mr. Ai- 
ken, to call on you for some of them, if they 
want them. My direction is — care of Andrew 
Bruce, Merchant, Bridge-street. 



NO. X. 



TO THE EARL OF EG-LINTON. 

Edinhurgh, January, 1787. 

My Lord, — 

As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- 
phy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citi- 
zen of the world ; but have all those national 
prejudices which, I believe, grow peculiarly 
strong in the breast of every Scotchman. There 
is scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly 
alive, as the honor and welfare of my country; 
and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than 
singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast 
my station in the veriest shades of life ; but nev- 
er did a heart pant more ardently than mine to 
be distinguished ; though till very lately, I look- 
ed in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is 
easy, then, to guess how much I was gratified 
with the countenance and approbation of one of 
my country's most illustrious sons, when Mr. 
Wauchope called on me yesterday on the part 
of your Lordship. Your munificence, my Lord, 
certainly deserves my very grateful acknowledg- 
ments ; but your patronage is a bounty pecu- 
liarly suited to my feelings. I am not master 
enough of the etiquette of life, to know wheth- 
er there be not some impropriety in troubling 
your Lordship with my thanks ; but my heart 
whispered me to do it. From the emotions of 
my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude, 1 



LETTERS. 



229 



hope, I am incapable of; and mercenary servil- 
ity, I trust, I siiall ever have so much honest 
pride as to detest. 



No. XI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, I5th January, 1787. 

Madam, — 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am this 
moment honored with, is a deep reproach to mo 
for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real 
truth, for T am miserably awkward at a fib ; I 
wished to have written to Dr. Moore before I 
wrote to you ; but though every day since I re- 
ceived yours of December 30ih, the idea, the 
wish to write to him, has constantly pressed on 
my thoughts, yet for my soul I could not set 
about it. I know his fame and character, and 
I am one of " the sons of little men." To write 
him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a mer- 
chant's order, would be disgracing the little char- 
acter I have ; and to write the author of The 
View of Society and 3Ja?tners a letter of senti- 
ment — I declare every artery runs cold at the 
thought. I shall try, however, to write to him 
to-morrow or next day. His kind interposition 
in my behalf I have aready experienced, as a 
gentleman waited on me the other day on the 
part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by way 
of subscription for two copies of my next edi- 
tion. 

The word you object to in the mention I have 
made of my glorious countryman and your im- 
mortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thom- 
son ; but it does not strike me as an improper 
epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your 
finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion 
of some of the literati here, who honor me with 
their critical strictures, and they all allow it to 
be proper. The song you ask I cannot recollect, 
and I have not a copy of it. I have not compos- 
ed anything on the great Wallace, except what 
you have seen in print, and the inclosed, which 
I will print in this edition.* You will see I 
have mentioned some others of the name. When 
I composed my Vision long ago, I attempted a 
description of Koyle, of which the additional 
stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My 
heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice 
to the merits of the Saviour of his country, 
which, sooner or later, I shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I know 
myself and the world too well. I do not mean 
any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to 
believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; 
but in a most enlightened, informed age and na- 
tion, when poetry is and has been the study of 
men of the first natural genius, aided with all 
the powers of polite learning, polite books, and 
polite company — to be dragged forth to the full 
glare of learned and polite observation, with all 
my imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude 
unpolished ideas on my head — I assure you. 
Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you I 
tremble for the consequences. The novelty of 
a poet in my obscure situation, without any of 

* Stanzas in the Viaion, beginning " By stately 
tower or palace fair,*' and ending with the first Du- 
an.— E. 



those advantages which are reckoned necessary 
for that character, at least at this time of day, 
has raised a partial tide of public notice, which 
has borne me to a height where I am absolute- 
ly, feelingly certain my abilities are inadequate 
to support me ; too surely do I see that time, 
when the same tide will leave me, and recede, 
perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. I do 
not say this in the ridiculous affectation of self- 
abasement and modesty. I have studied my- 
self, and know what ground I occupy ; and, 
however a friend or the world may differ from 
me in that particular, I stand for my own opin- 
ion in silent resolve, with all the tenaciousneas 
of property. I mention this to you, once for all, 
to disburden my mind, and I do not wish to 
hear or say more about it. — But 

*' When proud fortune'sebbing tide recedes," 
you will bear me witness, that, when my bub- 
ble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintox- 
icated, with the inebriating cup in my hand, 
looking forward with rueful resolve to the hast- 
ening time when the blow of Calumny should 
dash it to the ground, with all the eagerness of 
vengeful triumph. 

* # * # 

Your patronising me, and interesting yourself 
in my fame and character as a poet, 1 rejoice in; 
it exalts me in my own idea ; and whether you 
can or cannot aid me in my subscription is a tri- 
fle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any charms 
to the heart of a bard, compared with the pat- 
ronage of the descendant of the immortal Wal- 
lace ? 



No. XIL 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Sir,— 

Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me 
extracts of letters she has had from you, where 
you do the rustic bard the honor of noticing him 
and his works. Those who have felt the anxi- 
eties and solicitude of authorship, can only know 
what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such a 
manner by judges of the first character. Your 
criticisms. Sir, I receive with reverence ; only 
I am sorry they mostly came too late ; a pec- 
cant passage or two, that I would certainly have 
altered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far 
the greater part of those even who were authors 
of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, 
my first ambition was, and still my strongest 
wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic in- 
mates of the hamlet, while ever-changing lan- 
guage and manners shall allow me to be relish- 
ed and understood. I am very willing to admit 
that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, 
if any writers, either moral or political, are inti- 
mately acquainted with the classes of mankind 
among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may 
have seen men and manners in a different pha- 
sis from what is common, which may assist 
originality of thought. Still I know very well 
the novelty of my character has by far the great- 
est share in the learned and polite notice I have 
lately had ; and in a language where Pope and 
Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone 
and Gray drawn the tear — where Thomson and 
Beattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttle- 



230 



LETTERS 



ton and Collins described the heart, I am not 
vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic 
fame. 



No. XIII. 
TROM DR. MOORE, 



Sir, 



Clifford-Street, January 3d, 1787. 



I have just received your letter, by which I 
find I have reason to complain of my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop, for transmitting to you extracts from 
my letters to her, by much too freely and too 
carelessly written for your perusal. I must for- 
give her, however, in consideration of her good 
intention, as you will forgive me, I hope, for 
the freedom I use with certain expressions, in 
consideration of my admiration of the poems in 
general. If 1 may judge of the au:hor's disposi- 
tion from his works, with all the good qualities 
of a poet, he has not the irritable temper ascrib- 
ed to that race of men by one of their own num- 
ber, who you have the happiness to resemble in 
ease and curious felicity of expression. Indeed 
the poetical beauties, however original and bril- 
liant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I admire 
in your works ; the love of your native coun- 
try., that feeling sensibility to all the objects of 
humanity, and the independent spirit which 
breathes through the whole, give me a most fa- 
vorable impression of the poet, and have made 
me often regret that I did not see the poems, 
the certain effect of which would have been my 
seeing the author last summer, when I was lon- 
ger in Scotland than I have been for many 
years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement 
you receive at Edinburgh, and I think you pe- 
culiarly fortunate in the patronage of Dr. Blair, 
who I am informed interests himself very much 
lor you. I beg to be remembered to him ; no- 
body can have a warmer regard for that gentle- 
man than I have, which, independent of the 
worth of his character, would be kept alive by 
the memory of our common friend, the late Mr. 
George B e. 

Before I received your letter, I sent enclosed 

in a letter to , a sonnet by Mi^s Williams, 

a young poetical lady, which she wrote on read- 
ing your Mountain-Daisy ; perhaps it may not 
displease you.* 

1 have been trying to add to the number of 
your subscribers, but find many of my acquaint- 
ance are already among them. I have only to 
add, that with every sentiment of esteem and 
the most cordial good wishes, I am. 

Your obedient, humble servant, 

J.MOORE. 

♦ The sonnet is as follows : 

While soon " the garden's flaunting flow'rs" decay. 

And scattered on the earth neglected lie, 
The " Mountain-Daisy, "cherished by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
Ah ! like the lonely flower, the poet rose 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale : 
He felt each storm that on the mountain blows, 

Norever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigor nursed. 

On nature with impassion'd look he gazed, 
Then through the cloud otadverse fortune burst 

Indignant, and in ligiil unborrow'd blazed. 
Scotia ! from rude affl ctions shield thy bard, 
His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will guard. 



No. XIV. 

t:o the rev.g. lowrie, ofne w- 
mills.near kilmarnock 

Edinburgh, 5th Feb. 1787. 
Reverend and Dear Sir, — 

When I look at the date of your kind letter 
my heart reproaches me severely with ingrati- 
tude in neglecting so long to answer it. 1 will 
not trouble you with any account, by way of 
apology, of my hurried life and distracted atten- 
tion : do me the justice to believe that my delay 
by no means proceeded from want of respect. 
I feel, and ever shall feel, for you. the mingled 
sentiments of esteem for a friend, and reverence 
for a father. 

I thank you. Sir, with all my soul, for your 
friendly hints ; though I do not need them so 
much as my friends are apt to imagine. You 
are dazzled with newspaper accounts and dis- 
tant reports; but in reality, I have no great temp- 
tation to be intoxicated with the cup of prosper- 
ity. Novelty may attract the attention of man- 
kind awhile ; to it I owe my present eclat ; but 
I see the time not far distant, when the popular 
tide, which has borne me to a height of which I 
am perhaps unworthy, shall recede with silent 
celerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, 
to descend at my leisure to my former station. 
I do not say this in the affectation of modesty ; 
I see the consequence is unavoidable, and am 
prepared for it. I had been at a good deal of 
pains to form a just, impartial estimate of my 
intellectual powers, before I came here ; I have 
not added, since I came to Edinburgh, anything 
to the account ; and I trust I shall take every 
atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of my 
unnoticed, early years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I 
have found, what I would have expected in our 
friend, a clear head and an excellent heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours I spend in 
Edinburgh must be placed to the account of 
Miss Lowrie and her piano-forte. I cannot help 
repeating to you and Mrs. Lowrie a compliment 
that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated " Man of 
Feeling," paid to Miss Lowrie, the other night, 
at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, 
and sat down by him, till I saw Miss Lowrie in 
a seat not very far distant, and went up to pay 
my respects to her. On my return to Mr. Mac- 
kenzie, he asked me who she was ; I told him 
'twas the daughter of a reverend friend of mine 
m the west country. He returned, There was 
something very striking, to his idea, in her ap- 
pearance. On my desiring to know what it was, 
he was pleased to say, " She has a great deal oj 
th . elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with 
all the sweet simplicity of a country-girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates of 
Saint Margarets. I am, dear Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 
ROBT. BURNS. 



No. XV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 
Edinburgh, 15th February, 1787. 
Sip — 

Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so 
long to acknowledge the honor you have done 



LETTERS. 



231 



me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. 
Not many monihs ago, 1 knew no other employ- 
ment than following the plough, nor could boast 
anything higher than a distant acquaintance with 
a country clergyman. Mere greatness never 
embarrasses me ; 1 have nothing to ask from the 
great, and I do not fear their judgment ; but ge- 
nius, polished by learning, and at its proper point 
of elevation in the eye of the world, this of late 
I frequently meet with, and tremble at its ap- 
proach. I scorn the affectation of seeming mod- 
esty to cover self-conceit. I'hat I have some 
merit I do not deny ; but I see, with frequent 
wringings of heart, that the novelty of my char- 
acter, and the honest national prejudice of my 
countrymen, have borne me to a height altogeth- 
er untenable to my abilities. 

for the honor Miss W. has done me, please, 
Sir, return her, in my name, my most grateful 
thanks. I have more than once thought of pay- 
ing her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the 
idea in hopeless despondency. I had never be- 
fore heard of her ; but the other day I got her 
poems, which, for several reasons, some belong- 
ing to the head, and others the offspring of the 
heart, gave me a great deal of pleasure. I have 
little pretensions to critic lore: there are, I think, 
two characteristic features in her poetry — the 
unfeitered wild flight of native genius, and the 
querulous, so»i6re tenderness of time-settled sor- 
row. 

I only know what pleases me, often without 
being able to tell why. 



No. XVI. 



FROM DR. MOORE. 
Clifford-street, 28th February, 1787. 
Dear Sir, — 

Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal 
of pleasure. It is not surprising thai you im- 
prove in correctness and taste, considering 
where you have been for some lime past. And 
I dare swear there is no danger of your admit- 
ting any polish which might weaken the vigor 
of your native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that you disdain the 
nauseous affectation of decrying your own mer- 
it as a poet, an affectation which is displayed 
with most ostentation by those who have the 
greatest share of self-conceit, and which only 
adds undeceiving falsehood to disgusting vanity. 
For you to deny the merit of your poems, would 
be arraigning the fixed opinion of the public. 

As the new edition of my View of Society is 
not yet ready, I have sent you the former edi- 
tion, which I beg you will accept as a small 
mark of my esteem. It is sent by sea to the 
care of Mr. Creech ; and along with these four 
volimies for yourself, I have also sent my 3Ied- 
ical Sketches, in one volume, for my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop, of Dunlop : this you will be so obliging 
as to transmit, or, if you chance to pass soon by 
Dunlop, to give to her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription is so 
ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of good 
fortune that befalls you, for you are a great fa- 
vorite in my family ; and this is perhaps a high- 
er compliment than, perhaps, you are aware of. 
It includes almost all the professions, and, of 
course, is a proof that your writings are adapted 



to various tastes and situations. My youngest 
son, who is at Winchester School, writes to me 
that he is translating some stanzas of your Hal- 
low E'en into Latin verse for the benefit of hia 
comrades. This union of taste partly proceeds, 
no doubt, from the cement of Scottish partiality, 
with which they are all somewhat tinctured. 
Even your ira?iglator, who left Scotland too ear- 
ly in life for recollection, is not without it. 
* * * * 

I remain, with great sincerity. 
Your obedient servant. 

J. MOORE. 



No. XVII. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

Edinburgh, 1787. 
My Lord, — 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your Lord- 
ship, which I was told was to be got in town : 
but i am sorry to see that a blundering painter 
has spoiled a •' human face divine.*' The in- 
closed stanzas I intended to h&ve written be- 
low a picture or profile of your Lordship, could 
1 have been so happy as to procure one with any- 
thing of a likeness. 

As 1 will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for my 
gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to 
say to a friend, 'ihere is my noble patron, my 
generous benefactor. Allow me, my Lord, to 
publish these verses, I conjure your Lordship, 
by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gener- 
ous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and 
feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition.* I owe much to 
your Lordship ; and, what has not in some oth- 
er instances always been the case with me, the 
weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I 
trust I have a heart as independent as your Lord- 
ship's, than which I can say nothing more ; and 
I would not be beholden to favors that would cru- 
cify my feelings. Your dignified character in 
life, and manner of supporting that character, 
are flattering to my pride; and I would he jeal- 
ous of the purity of my grateful attachment 
where I was under the patronage of one of the 
much-favored sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to fame 
and illustrious in their country ; allow me, then, 
my Lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic 
merit, to tell the world how much I have the 
honor to be, 

Your Lordship's highly indebted, 

And ever grateful humble servant. 



No. XVIIL 

TO THE EARL OF BUGHAN. 

My Lord, — 

The honor your Lordship has done me, by 
your notice and advice in yours of the 1st instant, 
I shall ever gratefully remember : 

* It does not appear that the Earl granted thia re- 
quest, nor have the verses alluded to been found 
among the >1SS. — E. 



232 



LETTERS. 



" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They besi can give it who deserve it most." 
Your Lordship touches the darhng chord of 
my heart, when you advise me to fire my muse 
at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish 
for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- 
grimage through my native country : to sit and 
muse on those once hard-contended fields where 
Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne 
through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my Lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, 
moral-looking phantom strides across my imag- 
ination, and pronounces these emphatic words : 
" I wisdom, dwell with prudence. Friend, I 
do not come to open the ill-closed wounds of 
your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you 
pain ; I wish through these wounds to imprint 
a lasting lesson on your heart. 1 will not men- 
tion how many of my salutary advices you have 
despised ; I have given you line upon line, and 
precept upon precept ; and while I was chalk- 
ing out to you the straight way to wealth and 
character, with audacious effrontery, you have 
zig-zagged across the path, contemning me to 
my face ; you know the consequences. It is 
not yet three months since home was too hot for 
you, that you were on the wing for the western 
shore of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but 
to hide your misfortune. 

" Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in 
your power to return to the situation of your fore- 
fathers, will you follow these Will-o'-Wisp mete- 
ors of fancy and whim, till they bring you once 
more to the brink of ruin .' I grant that the ut- 
most ground you can occupy is but half a step 
from the veriest poverty; but still it is half a 
step from it. If all that I can urge be ineffectu- 
al, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, let 
the call of pride, prevail with you. You know 
how you feel at the iron grip of ruthless oppres- 
sion : you know how you bear the galling sneer 
of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the 
conveniences, the comforts of life, independence 
and character, on the one hand ; I tender you 
servility, dependence, and wretchedness, on the 
other ; I will not insult your understanding by 
bidding you make a choice."* 

This, my Lord, is unanswerable. I must re- 
turn to my humble station, and woo my rustic 
muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. 
Still, my Lord, while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear loved country in 
which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those 
her distinguished sons, who have honored me 
80 much with their patronage and approbation, 
shall while stealing through my humble shades 
ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, 
draw forth the swelling tear. 



No. XIX. 



Ext. Property in favor of Mr. Robert Burns, to erect 
and keep up a Headstone in memory of Poet f er- 
gusson, 1787. 

Session-house within the Kirk of Canon- 
gate, the twenty-second day of February, 
one thousand seven hundred and eighty- 
seven years. 
* Copied from the Bee, vol ii. p. 319, and compared 
with the Author's MS. 



SEDERTTNT OF THE MANAGERS OF THE KTRK AND 
KIRK- YARD FUNDS OF CANONGATE, 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date the sixth current, which was read, and ap- 
pointed to be engrossed in their sederunt-book, 
and of which letter the tenor follows : " To the 
Honorable Bailies of Canongate, Edinburgh. 
Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told, that the re- 
mains of Robert Fergusson, the so justly cele- 
brated poet, a man whose talents, for ages to 
come, will do honor to our Caledonian name, 
lie in your church-yard, among the ignoble 
dead, unnoticed and unknown. 

"Some memorial to direct the steps of the lov- 
ers of Scottish Song, when they wish to shed a 
tear over the * narrow house' of the bard who 
is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergusson's 
memory : a tribute I wish to have the honor of 
paying. 

"I petition you, then, gentlemen, to permit 
me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, 
to remain an unalienable property to his death- 
les fame. I have the honor to be, Gentlemen, 
your very humble servant, {sic suhscibitur,) 
" Robert Burns." 

Thereafter the said managers, in considera- 
tion of the laudable and disinterested motion of 
Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, did 
and hereby do, unanimously, grant power and 
liberty to the said Robert Burns toerect a head- 
stone at the grave of the said Robert Fergus- 
son, and to keep up and preserve the same to 
his memory in all time coming. Extracted forth 
of the records of the managers, by 

WjLLiAM Sprot, Clerk. 



No. XX. 



TO 



My Dear Sir. — 

You may think, and too justly, that I am 
a selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say — 
thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of a 
life my conscience has led me on that account, 
your good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By the by, there is nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to me so un- 
accountable as that thing called conscience. 
Had the troublesome, yelping cur powers effi- 
cient to prevent a mischief, he might be of use ; 
but at the beginning of the business, his feeble 
efforts are to the workings of passion as the in- 
fant frosts of an autumnal morning to the un- 
clouded fervor of the rising sun : and no sooner 
are the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed 
over, than, amidst the bitter native consequen- 
ces of folly in the very vortex of our horror, up 
starts conscience, and harrows us with the feel- 
ings of the d*^***. 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, 
some verse and prose, tliat if tliey merit a place 
in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are 
welcome to. The prose extract is literally aa 
Mr. Sprot sent it me. 

The Inscription of the stone is as follows: 

here lies 

ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 

Born, September 5ih, 1751— Died, 16th October, 1774. 



LETTERS 



233 



No pculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn, nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs palf Scoiia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

On the other side of the Stone is as follows : 

** By special grant of the Managers to Rob- 
ert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial 
place is to remain forever sacred to the memo- 
ry of Robert Fergusson." 



No. XXI. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM . 

8th March, 1787. 

I am truly happy to know that you have 
found a friend in ***** ; his patronage 
of you does him great honor. He is truly a 
good man ; by far the best I ever knew, or. per- 
haps, ever shall know, in this world. But I 
must not speak all I think of him, lest I should 
be thought partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from the magis- 
trates to erect a stone over Fergusson's grave ? 
I do not doubt it; such things have been, as 
Shakspeare says, " in the olden time:" 
"The poet's fate is here in emblem shown. 
He ask'd for bread, and he receiv'd a stone." 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that 
this is written. But how many brothers of Par- 
nassus, as well as poor Butler and poor Fergus- 
son, have asked for bread, and been served the 
same sauce I 

The magistrates gave you lihertij, did they? 

generous magistrates! ******* cele- 
brated over the three kingdoms for his public 
spirit, gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb 
to a poor poet's memory! most generous ! * * 
* * once upon a time gave that same poet the 
mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy of his 
works. But then it must be considered that the 
poet was at this time absolutely starvincr, and 
besought his aid with all the earnestness of hun- 
ger; and over and above, he received a * * * * 
worth, at least one third of the value, in ex- 
change, but which, I believe, the poet after- 
wards very ungratefully expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of 
seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my stay will 
be for eight or ten days, I wish you or * * * * 
would take a snug well aired bed-room for me. 
where I may have the pleasure of seeing you 
over a mornins cup of tea. But. by all accounts, 
it will be a matter of some difficulty to see you 
at all, unless your company is bespoke a week 
before-hand. There is a great rumor here 
concerning your great intimacy with the Dutch- 
ess of ■. and other ladies of distinction. 

1 am really told that " cards to invite fly by 
thousands each night ;" and, if you had one, I 
suppose there would also be " bribes to your old 
secretary." It seems you are resolved to make 
hay while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, 
the fate of poor Fergusson. ***** Quoeren- 
da pecunia primum est, virtus post nummos, is a 

; good maxim to thrive by ; you seemed to despise 
it while in this country ; but probably some phi- 
losopher in Edinburgh has taught you better 

- sense. 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print- 

1 ing ? — Are you yet seized. 



" With itch of picture in the front. 
With bays and wicked rliynie npon'tl" 

But I must give up this trilliiig, and attend to 
matters that more concern myself; so. as the 
Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly, we sal drink 
phan we meet.* 

No. XXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 
Madam. — 

1 read your letter with watery eyes. A lit- 
tle, very little while ago, / had scarce a friend 
hut the stuhhorn pride of my own bosom ; now I 
am distinguished, patronised, befriended by you. 
Your friendly advices, I will not give them the 
cold name of criticisms, 1 receive with reve- 
rence. I have made some small alterations in 
what I before had printed. I have the advice of 
some very judicious friends among the literati 
here, but with them I sotnetimes find it neces- 
sary to claim the privilege of thinking for my- 
self. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I 
owe more than to any man, does me the honor 
of giving me his strictures; his hints, with re- 
spect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- 
plicitly. 

You kindly interested yourself in my future 
views and prospects : there I can give you no 
light : — it is all 

"Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roild together, or had try'd his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far 
my highest pride; to continue to deserve it, is 
my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish story are the themes I could wish to 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in 
my power, unplagued with the routine of busi- 
ness, for which, heaven knows ! I am unfit 
enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through 
Caledonia; to sit on the fields of her battles; to 
wander on the romantic banks of her rivers; 
and to muse by the stately towers or venerable 
ruins, once the honored abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts: I have 
dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time to be in 
earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
tender. 

Where the individual only suffers by the con- 
sequences of his own thoughtlessness, indo- 
lence, or folly, he may be excusable; nay, shin- 
ing abilities, and some of the nobler virtues may 
lialf- sanctify a heedless character : but where 
God and nature have intrusted the welfare of 
others to his care, where the trust is sacred, and 
the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in 
selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom 
these connections will not rouse to exertion. 

* The above extract is from a letter of one of the 
able.M of nur Poet's correspondents, which contains 
some interesting anecdotes of Fergusson. that we 
should have been happy to have inserted, if thoy 
could have been authenticated. The writer is mis- 
tnken in snpposini^ the maijistrates of Edinburgh 
had any sharn in the transaction respectinji: the 
monumt^nt erected for Fergusson by onr bard ; this, 
it is evident, passed between Burns nnd the K rk- 
Session of the Canoiigate. Neither at Fdinburgh 
nor any wliere else, do magistrates usually trouble 
themselves to inquire how the house of a poor poet 
is furnished, or how his grave is adorned. — E 



234 



LETTERS. 



I gupss that I shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship: with 
that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old acquaint- 
ance, the plough ; and if I can meet with a lease 
by which I can live, to commence farmer. I 
do not intend to give up poetry : being bred to 
labor secures me independence ; and the muses 
are my chief, son)etimes have been my only 
employment. If my practice second my reso- 
lution, I shall have principally at heart the se- 
rious business of life ; but, while following my 
plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast 
a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature 
of my character, which gave me the notice of 
my country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honored Madam, 1 have given you 
the bard, his situation, and his views, native as 
they are in his own bosom. 

# * # * 



No. XXIII. 



TO THE S A ME. 

Edinburgh, loth April, 1787. 
Madam, — 

Thiere is an affectation of gratitude which I 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the paus- 
es of Sterne, may hide a selfish heart. For my 
part, Madam, I trust I have too much pride for 
servility, and too little prudence for selfishness. 
I have this moment broken open your letter; but 

♦' Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself" — 

SO I shall not trouble you with any fine speech- 
es and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand 
on my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever have 
the truest, the warmest sense of your goodness. 

I come abroad in print for certain on Wednes- 
day. Your orders I shall punctually attend to; 
only,. by the way, I must tell you that I was 
paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W.'s 
copies, through the medium of Commissioner 
Cochrane in this place ; but that we can settle 
when I have the honor of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the 
morning before I received your letter to him. 



No. XXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. 

I received the books, and sent the one you 
mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I an) ill-skilled in 
beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors 
of gratitude. I thank you. Sir. for the honor 
you have done me; and to my latest hour will 
warmly remember it. To be highly pleased 
with your book, is what I have in common with 
the world; but to regard these volumes as a 
mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still 
more supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days 
or a fortnight ; and, after a few pilgrimages 
over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, 
Cowden Knowts, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, 
(fr., I shall return to my rural shades, in all 
likelihood never more to quit them. I have 
*Adam Smith. 



formed many intimacies and friendships here, 
but I am afraid they are all of too tender a con- 
struciion to bear carriage a hundred and fifty 
miles. To the rich, the great, the fashionable, 
the polite, I have no equivalent to offer ; and I 
am afraid my meteor appearance will by no 
means entitle me to a settled correspondence 
with any of you, who are the permanent lights 
of genius and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss W. 
If once this tangent flight of mine were over, 
and I were returned to my wonted leisurely mo- 
tion in my old circle, I may probably endeavor 
to return her poetic compliment in kind. 



No. XXV. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO 
MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 30lh April, 1787. 
•Your criticisms. Madam, I understand 



very well, and could have wished to have pleas- 
ed you better. You are right in your guess that 
I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, 
much my superiors, have so flattered those who 
possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth 
and power, that I am determined to flatter no 
created being either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, 
&LC., as all these respective gentry do by my 
hardship. I know what I may expect from the 
world by and by — ilhberal abuse, and perhaps 
contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy. Madam, that some of my own 
favorite pieces are distinguished by your par- 
ticular approbation. For my Dream, which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displeas- 
ure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the 
honor of appearing at Dunlop, in its defence, 
in person. 



No. XXVI. 



TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 
Lawn-Market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787. 

ReVEKEND and MuCH-RESFEnTED SiR, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
could not go without troubling you with half a 
line sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown me. 
I often felt the embarrassment of my singular 
situation; drawn forth from the veriest shades 
of life to the glare of remark ; and honored by 
the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- 
try, whose works, while they are applauded to 
the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the 
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my 
appearance in the world misht attract notice, 
and honor me with the acquaintance of the 
permanent lights of genius and literature, those 
who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- 
ture of man ; I knew very well that my utmost 
merit was far unequal to the task of preserving 
that character when once the novelty was over. 
I have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost 
even neglect, will not surprise me in my quar- 
ters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beu- 
go's work for me, done on Indian paper, as a 



LETTERS. 



235 



trifling but sincere testimony with what heart- 
warm gratitude I am, &.c. 



No. XXVII. 



FROM DR. BLAIR. 
Ar gyle- Square, Edinburgh, ith May. 
Dear Sir, — 

I was lavored this forenoon with your very 
obliging letter, together with an impression of 
your portrait, for which I return you my best 
thanks. The success you have met with I do 
not think was beyond your merits ; and if I have 
had any small hand in contributing to it, it gives 
me great pleasure. I know no way in which 
literary persons, who are advanced in years, 
can do more service to the world, than in for- 
warding the efforts of rising genius, or bringing 
forth unknown merit from obscurity. I was the 
first person who brought ofut to the notice of the 
world, the poems of Ossian: first, by the Frag- 
mentK of Ancient Poetry which I published, 
and afterwards by my setting on foot the under- 
taking for collecting and publishing the Works 
of Ossian ; and I have always considered this 
as a meritorious action of my life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very 
singular ; and, in being brought out all at once 
from the shades of deepest privacy, to so great 
a share of public notice and observation, you 
had to stand a severe trial. I am happy that you 
have stood it so well ; and, as far as I have 
known or heard, though in the midst of many 
temptations, without reproach to your charac- 
ter and behavior. 

You are now, I presume, to retire to a more 
private walk of life ; and. I trust, will conduct 
yourself there, with industry, prudence, and 
honor. You have laid the foundation for just 
public esteem. In the midst of those employ- 
ments, which your situation will render proper, 
you will not, I hope, neglect to promote that 
esteem, by cultivating your genius, and attend- 
ing to such productions of it as may raise your 
character still higher. At the same time, be 
not in too great a haste to come forward. Take 
time and leisure to itnprove and mature your 
talents ; for on any second production you give 
the world, your fate, as a poet, will very much 
depend. There is, no doubt, a gloss of novelty 
which time wears off. As you very properly 
hint yourself, you are not to be surprised, if, in 
your rural retreat, you do not find yourself sur- 
rounded with that glare of notice and applause 
which here shone upon you. No man can be a 
good poet, without being somewhat of a philos- 
opher. He must lay his account, that any one. 
who exposes himself to public observation, will 
occasionally meet with the attacks of illiberal 
censure, which it is always best to overlook and 
despise. Me will be inclined sometimes to court 
retreat, and to disappear from public view. He 
will not affect to shine always, that he may at 
proper seasons come forth with more advantage 
and energy. He will not think himself neglect- 
ed, if he be not always praised. I have taken 
the liberty, you see, of an old man, to give ad- 
vice and make reflections which your own good 
sense will, I dare say. render unnecessary. 

Ab you mention your being just about to leave 
town, you are going, I should suppose, to Dum- 



fries-shire, to look at some of Mr. Miller's 
farms. I heartily wish the offers to be made 
you there may answer, as I am persuaded you 
will not easily find a more generous and better- 
hearted proprietor to Uve under, than Mr. Mil- 
ler. When you return, if you come this way, I 
will be happy to see you, and to know concern- 
ing your future plans of life. You will find me 
by the 22d of this month, not in my house in 
Argyle-square, but at a country-house at Res- 
talrig. about a mile east from Edinburgh, near 
the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all suc- 
cess and prosperity, I am, with real regard and 
esteem, dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIR. 



No. XXVIIl. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford- Street, May 23, 1787. 
Dear Sir, — 

I had the pleasure of your letter by Mr. 
Creech, and soon after he sent me the new ed- 
ition of your poems. You seem to think it in- 
cumbent on you to send to each subscriber a 
number of copies proportionate to his subscrip- 
tion-money ; but you may depend upon it, few 
subscribers expect more than one copy, what- 
ever they subscribed. I must inform you. how- 
ever, that I took twelve copies for those sub- 
scribers for whose money you were so accurate 
as to send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton 
told me he had sent for six copies for himself, 
as he wished to give five of them as presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this 
last edition are very beautiful, particularly the 
Winter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, — 
Green grow the Rashes, and the two songs im- 
mediately following; the latter of which is ex- 
quisite. By the way. I imagine you have a 
peculiar talent for such compositions, which 
you ought to indulge.* No kind of poetry 
demands more delicacy or higher polishing. 
Horace is more admired on account of his Odes 
than all his other writings. But nothing now 
added is equal to your Vision and Cotter's Sat- 
urday Night. In these are united fine imagery, 
natural and pathetic description, with sublimity 
of language and thought. It is evident that you 
already possess a great variety of expression 
and command of the English language ; you 
ought, therefore, to deal more sparingly for the 
future in the provincial dialect : why should you, 
by using that, limit the number of your admi- 
rers to those who understand the Scottish, when 
you can extend it to all persons of taste who 
understand the English language ? In my opin- 
ion you should plan some larger work than any 
you have as yet attempted. I mean, reflect up- 
on some proper subject, and arrange the plan in 
your mind, without beginning to execute any 
part of it till you have studied most of the best 
English poets, and read a little more of history. 
The Greek and Roman stories you can read in 
some abridgment, and soon become master of 
the most brilliant fads, which must highly de- 
liglit a poetical mind. You should also, and 
very soon may, become master of the heathen 
mythology, to which there are everlasting allu- 
*The poems siibsequenfly composed will hear tes- 
timony to the accuracy of Dr, Moore's judgment. — E. 



236 



LETTERS. 



sions in all the poets, and which in itself is 
charmingly fanciful. What will require to be 
studied with more attention, is modern history ; 
that is, the history of France and Great Bri- 
tain, from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's 
reign. I know very well you have a mind ca- 
pable of attaining knowledge by a shorter pro- 
cess than is commonly used, and I am certain 
you are capable of making a better use of it, 
when attained, than is generally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trouble 
of writing to me when it is iucoiivenient, and 
make no apology when you do write, for hav- 
ing postponed it ; be assured of this, however, 
that I shall always be happy to hear from you. 

I think my iriend, Mr. told me that you 

had some poems in manuscript by you, of a 
satirical and humorous nature (in which, by the 
way, I think you very strong,) which your pru- 
dent friends prevailed on you to omit ; particu- 
larly one called Somebody's Confession ; if you 
will intrust me with a sight of any of these, I 
will pawn my word to give no copies, and will 
be obliged to you for a perusal of them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
make the useful and respectable business of 
husbandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, 
will not prevent your making occasional address- 
es to the nine ladies who have shown you such 
favor, one of whom visited you in the auldclay 
biggin. Virgil, before you, proved to the world, 
that there is nothing in the business of hus- 
bandry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope 
that you may afford an example of a good poet 
being a successful farmer. 1 fear it will not be 
in my power to visit Scotland this season ; when 
I do, I'll endeavor to find you out. for I hearti- 
ly wish to see and converse with you. If ever 
your occasions call you to this place, I make no 
doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may 
depend on a very cordial welcome from this 
family. I am. dear Sir, 

Your friend and obedient servant. 
J. MOORE. 



No. XXIX. 
TO MR. WALKE R, 

BLAIR OF ATHOLE. 

Inverness, 5th September, 1787. 
Mv Dear Sir, — 

I have just time to write the foregoing,* 
and to tell you that it was (at least most part of 
it,) the effusion of a half-hour I spent at Bruar. 
I do not mean it was extempore, for I have en- 
deavored to brush it up as well as Mr. N 's 

chat and the jogging of the phaise, would allow. 
It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the 
coin with which a poet pays his debts of honor 
or gratitude. What 1 owe to the noble family 
of Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever proud- 
ly boast ; what I owe of the last, so help me 
God in my hour of need ! I shall never forget. 

The '* little angel band !" I declare I pray- 
ed for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of 
Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family- 
piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, the truly no- 
ble Dutchess, with her smiling little seraph in 
her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely 
" olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely says, 
round the happy mother; the beautiful Mrs. 

*The hutiihle petition of Hruar-Water to the Duke 
rf Athole. See Poems, p. 53 



G ; the lovely, sweet. Miss C, &c. I wish 

I had the powers of Guido to do them justice 
My Lord Duke's kind hospitality — markedly 
kind indeed ! Mr. G. of F — 's charms of con- 
versation — Sir W. M 's friendship. In short, 

the recollection of all that polite, agreeable com- 
pany, raises an honest glow in my bosom. 



No. XXX. 
TO MR'. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 17th Sept. 1787. 
My Dear Brother, — 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after 
a tour of twentv-two days, and traveling near 
six hundred miles, windings included. My far- 
thest stretch was about ten miles beyond In- 
verness. I went through the heart of the High- 
lands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous seat of 
the Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, among 
cascades and Druidical circles of stones, to 
Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole; thence 
cross Tay, and up one of the tributary streams 
to Blair of Athole, another of the Duke's seats, 
where I had the honor of spending nearly two 
days with his Grace and family ; thence many 
miles through a wild country, among cliffs gray 
with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, 
till I crossed Spey and went down the stream 
through Strathspey, so famous in Scottish mu- 
sic, Badenoch, &c. till I reached Grant Castle, 
where } spent half a day with Sir James Grant 
and family ; and then crossed the country for 
Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, 
the ancient seat of Macbeth ; there I saw the 
identical bed in which, tradition says. King 
Duncan was murdered; lastly, from Fort George 
to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, For- 
res, and so on. to Aberdeen ; thence to Stone- 
hive, where James Burness, from Montrose, 
met me, by appointment. I spent two days 
among our relations, and found our aunts, Jean 
and Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. 
John Caird, though born the same year with 
our father, walks as vigorously as I can ; they 
have had several letters from his son in New- 
York. William Brand is likewise a stout old 
fellow; but further particulars I delay till I see 
you, which will be in two or three weeks. The 
rest of my stages are not worth rehearsing ; 
warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I 
had seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing 
towns or fertile carses? I slept at the famous 
Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined at Gor- 
don Castle next day wiih the Duke, Dutchess, 
and family. I am thinking to cause my old 
mare to meet me, by means of John Ronald, 
at Glasgow : but you shall hear farther from me 
before 1 leave Edinburgh. My duty, and many 
compliments, from the north, to my mother, 
and my brotherly compliments to the rest. I 
have been trying fur a binh for William, but 
am not likely to be successful. — Farewell ! 



No. XXXI. 
FROM MR. R"***. 

Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1787. 
Sir,— 
'Twasonly yesterday I got Colonel Edmond- 



LETTERS. 



237 



stoune's answer, that neither the words of Z)wMJ7i 
the Burn Davie, nor Duintie Davie, (1 lorgot 
which you mentioned,) were written by Colo- 
nel G. Crawford. Next time I meet him I will 
enquire about his cousin's poetical talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, 
and a letter to Mr. Young, whose company and 
musical talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast 
to you.* Nobody can give you better hints, 
as to your present plan, than he. Receive also 
Onieron Cameron, which seemed to make a 
deep impressiof) on your imagination, that I am 
not without hopes it will beget something to de- 
light the public in due time : and, no doubt, the 
circumstances of this little tale might be varied or 
extended, so as to make part of a pastoral com- 
edy. Age or wounds might have kept Omeron 
at home, whilst his countrymen were in the 
field. His station may be somewhat varied, 

* These Inscriptions, so much admired by Burns, 
are as follows ; 

WRITTEN IN 1768. 

FOR THE SALTCITUM* AT OCHTERTYRK. 

Salubritatis valiip'atisque causa, 

Hoc Salictum, 

Paludem olim intidam, 

Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hie, procul negotiis strepiiuque, 

Innocuis deliciis 
Silvulas inter nascentes reptandi, 
Apiunique lahores suspiciendi, 
Fruor. 
Hie, si faxit Deus opt. max. 
Prope hunc fonteni pellucidum, 
Cum quodam juventutis aniico superstite, 
Sa^pe conquiesram, senex, 
Contentus niodicis, meoque Ifetus I 
Sin aliter— 
iEvique pauluium supersit, 
Vos silvulae. et amici, 
Casteraqne amcena, 
Valete, diuque laetainini I 

ENGLISHED. 

To improve both air and soil, 
I drain and decorate this plantation of willows, 
Which was lately an unprofitable morass. 
Here, far from noise and strife, 
I love to wander. 
Now fondly marking the progress of my trees, 
Now studying tho bee, its arts and manners. 
Here, if it pleases Almighiy God. 
May I ofien rest in the eveninvr of life, 

Near that transparent fountain. 
With some surviving friend of my youth ; 
Contented with a competency, 

And happy with my lot, 
If vain these humble wishes, 
And life draws near a close, 

Ye trees and friends, 
And whatever el*e is dear, 
Farewell: and long may you flourish. 



ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE. 

WRITTEN IN 177.5. 
Mihi meisque utinam conting 
Prope Taichi rnarginem, 
Avito in Agelio, 
Bene vivere fansteqne mori ! 

ENGLISHED. 

On the banks of the Teith. 
In the small but sweet inheritance 
Of my fathers, 
May I and mine live in peace, 
And die in joyful hope ! 
These inscriptions, and the translations, are in the 
hand-writing of Mr. Ramsay. 

* Salictum Gro»e of Willows, Willow-ground. 



without losing his simplicity and kindness. * * 
* A group of characiers, male and female, con- 
nected with the plot, might be formed from his 
family or some neighboring family of rank. It 
is not indispensable that the guest should be a 
man oi high station ; nor is the political quarrel 
in which he is engaged, of much importance, 
unless to call forth the exercise of generosity and 
faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. 
"^I'o introduce state-affairs, would raise the style 
above comedy ; though a small spice of them 
would season the converse of swains. Upon 
this head I cannot say more than to recommend 
the study of the character of Euma^us in the 
Odyssey, which, in Mr. Pope's translation, is 
an exquisite and invaluable drawing from nature, 
that would suit some of our country Elders of 
the present day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
discovery ; and peace and pardon may be the 
reward of hospitality, and honest attachment to 
misguided principles. When you once thought 
of a plot, and brought the story into form, Doc- 
tor Blacklock, or Mr. H. Mackenzie, may be 
useful in dividing it into acts and scones ; for 
in these matters one must pay some attention 
to certain rules of the drama. These you could 
afterwards fill up at your leisure. But, whilst I 
presume to give a few well-meant hints, let me 
advise you to study the spirit of my namesake's 
dialogue.* which is natural without being low; 
and, under the trammels of verse, is such as 
country-people, in these situations, speak every 
day. You have only to bring down your strain 
a very little. A great plan, such as this, would 
concentre all your ideas, which facilitates the 
execution, and makes it a part of one's pleas- 
ure. 

1 approve of your plan of retiring from din 
and dissipation to a farm of very moderate size, 
sufficient to find exercise for mind and body, but 
not so great as to absorb better things. And if 
some intellectual pursuit be well chosen and 
steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative than 
most farms, in this age of rapid improvement. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and 
admirer, permit me to go a step further. Let 
those bright talents which the Almighty has be- 
stowed on you, be henceforth employed to the 
noble cause of truth and virtue. An imagina- 
tion so varied and forcible as yours, may do 
this in many different modes : nor is it necessa- 
ry to be always serious, which you have to good 
purpose ; good morals may be recommended in 
a comedy; or even in a song. Great allowances 
are due to the heat and inexperience of youth ; 
and few §oets can boast, like Thomson, of nev- 
er having written a line, which, dying, they 
would wish to blot. In particular I wish you to 
keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which 
makes a man a hundred enemies for one friend, 
and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed 
to extend the slips and weaknesses of individu- 
als to their sect or party. About modes of 
faith, serious and excellent men have always 
differed ; and there are certain curious questions, 
which may afTord scope to men of metaphysical 
heads, but seldom mend the heart or temper. 
Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it 
is sufficient that all our sects concur in their 
view of morals. You will forgive me for these 
hints. 

♦Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shepherd.— E. 



238 



LETTERS. 



Well ! what think you of good lady Clack- 
mannan ?* It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks 
so indistinctly. Her house is a specimen of the 
mansions of our gentry of the last age, when 
hospitality and elevation of mind were conspic- 
uous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I 
shall be glad to hear from you at times, if it were 
no more than to show that you take the effus- 
ions of an obscure man like me in good part. I 
beg my best respects to Dr. and Mrs. Black- 
lock. And am, Sir, 

Your most obedien*, humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



TALE OFOMERON CAMERON. 

In one of the wars betwixt the crown of Scotland 
and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl 
of Mar (a distin<jiiished character in the fifteenth 
century.) and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had 
the command of the royal army. They marched in- 
to Lochaber, with a view of attacking a body of the 
M'Doiialds. commanded i)y Donald Balloch,and post- 
ed upon an arm of the sea which intersects that coun- 
try. Having timely intelligence of their approach, 
the insurgents got off precipitately to the opposite 
shore in their cnrraffhs. or boat.* covered with skins. 
The king's troops encamped in full secur ty ; but the 
M'Donalds. returning about midnisiht, surprised them, 
killed the Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispers- 
ed the whole army. 

The Earl of Marescaped in the dark, without any 
attendants, and made for the more hilly p.irt of the 
country. In the course of his flight he came to the 
house of a poor man, whose name was Omeron Cam- 
eron. The landlord welcomed his guest with the ut- 
most kindness; but, as there was no meat in the 
house, he told his wife he would directly kill Maol 
Adhar,^ to f ed The stranger. '* Kill our only cowl" 
said she, ' our own and our little childien's principal 
support!" More attentive, however, to the present 
call for hospitality than to the remon.«trances of his 
wife, or the future exigences of his fam.ly, he killed 
the cow. The best and tmd.rest parts were imreie- 
diately roasted bt fore the fire, and plenty of in ni rich, 
or Highland soup, prepared to concluile their meal. 
The whole family, and their guest, ate heartily, and 
the evening was spent, as usual, in telling tales and 
singing songs beside a cheerful fire. Bed time came ; 
Omeron brushed th'- hearth, spre id the cow-hide up- 
on it. and desired the stranger to lie down. The earl 
wrapped his plaid al)oul him and slept soundly on the 
hide, whilst the family betook themselves to rest in 
a corner of the snme room. 

Next morning they had a plentiful breakf;ist, and at 
his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew 
whom he had enterained ? '* You may probably." 
answered he, " be one of the king's officers : bu' who- 
ever you are, you came here in distress, and here it 
was my duty to protect you. To what my cottage at- 
forded you was most welcome." '• Your gui-st then,"' 
replied the other. • is the Earl of Mar ; and if here- 
after you fall into any misfortune, fail not to come to 
the casile of Kildrummie." •' iMy blessing be with 
you ! nobje stranger," said Omeron ; " if iani ever 
in distress, you shall soon see me." 

The royal army was soon after reassembled, and 
the insurgents rinding themselves unable to make 
head against it, dispersed The M'Donalds, howev- 
er, got notice that Omeron had been the Enrl's host, 
an! forced him to fly tiie country. Hi- came with his 
wife and children to the gate of Kildrummie castle, 
and required admittance with a confidence which 
hardly corresponded with his habit and appearance. 
The por er told him rudely, his lordship was at din- 
ner, and must not be disturbed. He became noisy 
and importunate : at last his name was announced. 
Upon hearing that it was Omeron Cameron, the Earl 
started from h s seat, and is said to have exclaimed 
in a kind of poetical stanza, ' I was a night in his 
house and fared most plentifully ; but naked of 

*Mrs. Bruce of Clackmann .n.— E. 

t Maol Odhar, i. e. the brown huinmii cow. 



No. XXXII. 

FROM MR. J. RAMSAY TO THE REV 
W. YOUNG, AT ERSKINE. 

OcUertyre, 22d October, 1787. 
Dear Sir, — 

Allow me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose 
poems, I dare say, have given you much pleas- 
ure. Upon a personal acquaintance, I doubt 
not, you will relish the man as much as his 
works, in which there is a rich vein of intellect- 
ual ore. He has heard some of our Highland 
Luinags or songs played, which delighted him 
so much that he has made words to one or two 
of them, which will render these more popular. 
As he has thought of being in your quarter, I 
am persuaded you will not think it labor lost to 
indulge the poet of nature with a sample of 
those sweet, artless melodies, which only want 
to be married (in Milton's phrase) to congenial 
words. I wish we could conjure up the ghost 
of Joseph M'D. to infuse into our bard a por- 
tion of his enthusiasm for those neglected airs, 
which do not suit the fastidious musicians of the 
present hour. But if it be true that Corelli 
(whom I looked on as the Homer of music) is 
out of date, it is no proof of their taste ; — this, 
however, is going out of my province. You 
can show Mr. Burns the manner of singing the 
same Luinags ; and, if he can humor it in 
words, I do not despair of seeing one of them 
sung upon the stage, in the original style, round 
a napkin. 

I am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel- 
dom in this neighborhood. It is one of the 
greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that 
one has so few opportunities of cultivating ac- 
quaintances at a distance. I hope, however, 
some time or other to have the pleasure of beat- 
ing up your quarters at Erskine, and of hauling 
you away to Paisley, (fee. ; meanwhile I beg to 
be remembered to Messrs Boog and Mylne. 

If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on 

our friend Mr. Stuart, who, I presume, does not 
dread the frowns of his diocesan. 
I am. Dear Sir, 
Your most obedient, humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



No. XXXIII. 



FROM MR. RAMSAY TO 
DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Ocfitertyre, October 27, 1787. 
Dear Sir, — 

I received yours by Mr. Burns, and give you 
many thanks for giving me an opportunity of 
conversing with a man of his calibre. He will, 
I doubt not. let you know what passed between 
us on the subject of my hints, to which I have 
made additions in a letter I sent him t'other day 
to your care. 

* * * * 

You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see him, 

clothes was my bed. Omeron from Breugach is an 
excellent fellow." He was introcUiced into the great 
hall, and received with the welcome he deserved. 
Upon hearing how he had been treated, the Earl gave 
him a four merk land near the casile ; and it is said 
there, are still a number of Canierons descended of 
this Highland Eunia;us. 



LETTERS. 



239 



that Colonel Edmondstoune told mc t'other day, 
that his cousin, Colonel (Jeorge Crawford, was 
no poet, but a great singer of songs ; bur that 
his eldest brother Robert (by a former marriage) 
had a great turn that way. having written the 
words of The Bush aboon Traquairaxxd Tweed- 
side. That the Mary to whom it was address- 
ed was Mary Stewart, of the Castlemilk fami- 
ly, afterwards wife of Mr. Joim Relchos. The 
Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, though he 
was at his burial fifty-five years ago. He was 
a pretty young man, and had lived long in 
France. Lady Ankerville is his niece, and 
may know more of his poetical vein. An epi- 
taph-monger like me might moralize upon the 
vanity of life, and the vanity of those sweet ef- 
fusions. But I have hardly room to oflfer my 
best compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, and am, 
Dear Doctor, 
Your most obedient, humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



No. XXXIV. 
FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

London, 28th October, 1787. 
My Dear Sir, — 

As my friend, Mr. Brown, is going from this 
place to your neighborhood, I embrace the op- 
portunity of telling you that lam yet alive, 
tolerably well, and always in expectation of 
being better. By the much-valued letters be- 
fore me, I see that it was my duty to have giv- 
en you this intelligence about three years and 
nine months ago: and have nothing to allege 
as an excuse, but that we poor, busy, bustling 
bodies in London, are so much taken up with 
the various pursuits in which we are here en- 
gaged, that we seldom think of any person, 
creature, place or thing that is absent. But 
this is not altogether the case with me; for I 
often think of you, and Homie and Eussel, and 
an unfathomed depth, and lowan brunstane, all 
in the same minute, although you and they are 
(as 1 suppose) at a considerable distance. I 
flatter myself, however, with the pleasing 
thought, that you and I shall meet some time 
or other either in Scotland or England. If ev- 
er you come hither, you will have the satisfac- 
tion of seeing your poems relished by the Cal- 
edonians in London, full as much as they can 
be by those of Edinburgh. We frequently re- 
peat some of your verses in our Caledonian so- 
ciety ; and you may believe, that 1 am not a lit- 
tle vain that I have had some share in cultiva- 
ting such a genius. I was not absolutely cer- 
tain that you were the author, till a few days 
Qgo, when I made a visit to Mrs. Hill, Dr. M'- 
Comb's eldest daughter, who lives in town, and 
who told me that she was informed of it by a 
letter from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom 
you had been in company when in that capital. 
Pray let me know if you have any intention 
of visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis? 
It would afford matter for a large poetn. Here 
you would have an opportunity of indulging 
your vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to 
a greater degree than in any city upon the face 
of the globe; for the inhabitants of London, as 
you know, are a collection of all nations, kin- 
dreds and tongues, who make it, as it were, the 
centre of their commerce. 



Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
rest of her amiable diildren. May the Father 
of the universe bless you all with those princi 
pies and dispositions that the best of parents 
took such uncomon pains to instill into your 
minds from your earliest infancy I May you 
live as he did ! if you do, you can never be un- 
happy. I feel myself grown serious all at once, 
and affected in a manner I cannot describe. I 
shall only add, that it is one of the greatest 
pleasures I promise myself before I die, that of 
seeing the family of a man whose memory I 
revere more than that of any person that ever I 
was acquainted with. 

I am. my dear Friend, 
Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



No. XXXV. 



FROM MR. 



Sir,- 

U you were not sensible of your fault as well 
as of your loss in leaving this place so sudden- 
ly, I should condemn you to starve upon cauld 
kail for ae towmont at least ! and as for Dick 
Lntine.* your traveling companion, without ban- 
ning him wV a' the curses contained in your 
letter (which he'll ?t.o value a bav^hep.,) I should 
give him nought but Stra bogie cast ocks to chew 
for sax ouhs, or ay until he was as sensible of 
his error as you seem to be of yours. 
* * * * 

Your song I showed without producing the 
author ; and it was judged by the Dutchess to 
be the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent a co- 
py of it. by her grace's desire, to a Mrs. M'- 
Pherson in Bad(;noch, who sings JSlorognnd all 
other Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have 
recorded it, likewise, by Lady Charlotte's de- 
sire, in a book belonging to her ladyship, where 
it is in company wiih a great many other poems 
and verses, some of the writers of which are 
no less eminent for their political than for their 
poetical abilities. When the Dutchess wns in- 
formed that you were the author, she wished 
you had written the verses in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come to 
hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cov 
er, it will likewise come free; that is, as long 
as the Duke is in this country. 

I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 



No. XXXVI. 

FROM THE REVEREND 
JOHN SKINNER. 

Lxnsheart, WthNovembcr, 1787. 
Sir,— 

Your kind return without date, but of post 
mark October 2.'')th, came to my hand only this 
day; and, to testify my punctuality to my po- 
e:ic engagement, I sit down immediately to an- 
swer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of my 
poor but just encomiums on your surprising 
genius, and your opinion of my rhyming ex- 

•Mr. Nicol. 



240 



LETTERS. 



cursions, are both, I think, by far too high. 
'J'he difference between our two tracks of edu- 
cation and ways of Hfe is entirely in your favor, 
and gives you the preference every manner of 
way. I know a classical education will not cre- 
ate a versifying taste, but il mightily improves 
and assists it ; and though, where both these 
meet, there may sometimes be ground for ap- 
probation, yet wtiere taste appears single as it 
were, and neither cramped nor supported by 
acquisition, 1 will always sustain the justice of 
its prior claim of applause. A small portion of 
taste, this way, I have had almost from child- 
hood, especially in the old Scottish dialect ; and 
it is as old a thing as I remember, my fondness 
for Christ-kirk o' the Green, which I had by 
heart, ere I was twelve years of age, and which, 
Bome years ago, 1 attempted to turn into Latin 
verse. While I was young, I dabbled a good 
deal in these things ; but, on getting the black 
gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my daugh- 
ters grew up, who, being all good singers, 
plagued me for words to some of their favorite 
tunes, and so extorted these effusions, which 
have made a public appearance beyond my ex- 
pectations, and contrary to my intentions, at the 
same time that I hope there is nothing to be 
found in them uncharacteristic, or unbecoming 
the cloth which I would always wish to see re- 
spected. 

As to the assistance you purpose from me in 
the undertaking you are engaged in,* I am sor- 
ry I cannot give it so far as I could wish, and 
you perhaps expect. My daughters, who were 
my only intelligencers, are all foris-familiate, 
and the old woman, their mother, has lost that 
taste. There are two from my own pen, which 
I might give you, if worth the while. One to 
the old Scotch tune of Dumbarton s Drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, as your 
noble friend the Dutchess has, I am told, heard 
of it. It was squeezed out of me by a brother 
parson in her neighborhood, to accommodate a 
new Highland reel for the Marquis's birth-day, 
to the stanza of 

"Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly, &c. 

If this last answer your pnrpose, you may 
have it from a brother of mine, Mr. James 
Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, 
can give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing I have heard, 
said to be done by the Catholic priest Geddes, 
and which hit my taste much ; 

"There was a wee wifeikie, was coming frae the 

fair, 
Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her meikle 

care, 
It took II po' the wifie's heart, and she began to spew, 
And co' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou, 

/ wishy (ij-c., <^c. 
I have heard of another new composition, by 
a young ploughman of my acquaintance, that I 
am vastly pleased with, to the tune of The Hu- 
mors of Glen, which T fear wont do. as the mu- 
sic, I am told, is of Irish original. I have men- 
tioned these, such as they are, to show my 
readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my 
mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have 
in hand, and which I wish all success to. You 
have only to notify your mind, and what you 
want of the above shall be sent you. 

*A plan of publisliing a complete collection of 
Scottish Songs, &c. 



Mean time, while you are thus publicly, 1 
may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue and 
morality delivered in your amusing style, and 
from such as you, will operate more than doz- 
ens would do from such as me, who shall be 
told it is our employment, and be never more 
minded : whereas, from a pen like yours, as be. 
ing one of the many, what comes will be ad- 
mired. Admiration will produce regard, and 
regard will leave an impression, especially u>Ae» 
exam-pie goes along. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad. 
For cadgers, ye have heard ii said, 

And sic like fry. 
Maun ay be harland in their trade, 

And sae maun I. 

Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all success, 
and, in my other character, all happiness and 
heavenly direction, 

I remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XXXVIL 
FROM MRS. ROSE. 
Kilravock Castle, 30th Nov. 1787. 
Sir,— 

I hope you will do me the justice to believe, 
that it was no defect in gratitude for your punc- 
tual performance of your parting promise, that 
has made me so long in acknowledging it, but 
merely the difficulty I had in getting the High- 
land songs you wished to have, accurately no- 
ted ; they are at last enclosed : but how shall I 
convey along with them those graces they ac- 
quired from the melodious voice of one of the 
fair spirits of the Hill of Kildrummie ! These 
I must leave to your imagination to supply. It 
has powers sufficient to transport you to lier 
side, to recall her accents, and to make them 
still vibrate in the ears of memory. To her I 
am indebted for getting the enclosed notes. 
They are clothed with " thoughts that breathe, 
and words that burn." These, however, being 
in an unknown tongue to you. you must again 
have recourse to that same i'ertile imagination 
of yours to interpret them, and suppose a lov- 
er's description of the beauties of an adored 
mistress — Why did I say unknown ? the lan- 
guage of love is a universal one, that seems to 
have escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be 
understood by all nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with 
so many things, persons and places, in your 
northern tour, because it leads me to hope you 
may be induced to revisit them again. That 
the old castle of Kilravock, and its inhabitants, 
were amongst these, adds to my satisfaction. 
I am even vain enough to admit your very flat- 
tering application of the line of Addison's; at 
any rate, allow me to believe, that " friendship 
will maintain the ground she has occupied in 
both our hearts," in spite of absence, and that 
when we do meet, it will be as acquaintance of 
a score years' standing ; and on this footing 
consider me as interested in the future course 
of your fame, so splendidly commenced. Any 



LETTERS. 



241 



communication of the progress of your muse 
will be received with great gratitude, and the 
fire of your genius will have power to warm 
even us frozen sisters of the north. 

The fire-sides of Kilravock and Kildrummie 
unite in cordial regards to you. When you in- 
cline to figure either in your idea, suppose some 
of us reading your poems, and some of us sing- 
ing your songs, and my little Hugh looking at 
your picture, and you'll seldom be wrong. We 
remember Mr. Nicol with as much good will as 
we can do any body who hurried Mr. Burns 
from us. 

Farewell, Sir: I can only contribute the wid- 
ow's mite, to the esteem and admiration excited 
by your merits and genius ; but this I give, as 
she did, with all my heart — being sincerely 
yours. 

EL. ROSE. • 



r 



No. XXXVIII. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

My Lokd, — 

I know your Lordship will disapprove of my 
ideas in a request I am going to make to you, but 
I have weighed my situation, my hopes, and 
turn of mind, and am fully fixed to my scheme, 
if I can possibly efl^ectuate it. I wish to get in- 
to the Excise; I am told that your Lordship's 
interest will easily procure me the grant from 
the Commissioners ; and your Lordship's patron- 
age and goodness, which have already rescued 
me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, 
embolden me to ask that interest. You have 
likewise put it in my power to save the little tie 
of home that sheltered an aged mother, two broth- 
ers, and three sisters, from destruction. There, 
my Lord, you have bound me over to the high- 
est gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease ; 
but I think he will probably weather out the re- 
maining seven years of it ; and, after the assist- 
ance which I have given, and will give him, to 
keep the family together, I think, by my guess, 
I shall have rather better than two hundred 
pounds, and instead of seeking what is almost 
impossible at present to find, a farm that I can 
live by, with so small a stock, I shall lodge this 
sum in a banking-house, a sacred deposit, ex- 
cepting only the calls of uncommon distress or 
necessitous old age ; * * * * 

These, My Lord, are my views; I have re- 
solved from the malurest deliberation ; and now 
that I am fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned to 
carry my resolve into execution. Your Lord- 
ship's patronage is certainly the strength of my 
hopes ; nor have I yet applied to any body else. 
Indeed my heart sinks within me at the idea 
of applying to any other of the Great who have 
honored me with their countenance. I am ill 
qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the 
impertinence of solicitation, and tremble near- 
ly as much at the thought of the cold promise, as 
the cold denial : but to your Lordship I have 
not only the honor, the comfort, but the pleas- 
ure of being 

Your Lordship's much obliged, 
And deeply indebted humble servant. 

^^ ROBERT BURNS. 

16 



No. XXXIX. 

TO DALRYMPLE, Esq. 

OF GRANGEFIELn. 

Edinburgh, 1787. 
Dear Sib, — 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his suc- 
cess with you, that he is determined, by a coup 
de main, to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the 
letter you sent me : hummed over the rhymes ; 
and as 1 saw they were extempore, said to my- 
self, they were very well ; but when I saw at 
the bottom a name I shall ever value with grate- 
ful respect, "I gapit wide but naething spak." 
I was nearly as much struck as the friends of 
Job, of affliction-bearing memory, when they 
sat down with him seven days and seven nights, 
and spake not a word. 

# # * * 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as 
soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained 
its consciousness, and resumed its functions, I 
cast about what this mania of yours might por- 
tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch 
of possibility ; and several events, great in their 
magnitude, and important in their consequences, 
occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the con- 
clave, or the crushing of the cork rumps ; a du- 
cal coronet to Lord George G , and the 

protestant. interest, or St. Peter's key, to * * * 

You want to know how I come on. I am just 
in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with 
my Latiu, in " auld use and wont." The no- 
ble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to- 
day, and interested himself in my concerns; 
with a goodness like that benevolent Being 
whose image he so richly bears. He is a stron- 
ger proof of the immortality of the soul than any 
that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his 
can never die. Let the worshipful squire H. L. 
or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their prim- 
itive nothing. At best, they are but ill-digest- 
ed lumps ot chaos, only one of them strongly 
tinged with bituminous particles and sulphure- 
ous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as 
the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the gen- 
erous throb of benevolence, shall look on with 
princely eye at " the war of elements, the 
wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.'' 



No. XL. 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 
December, 1787. 
Sir,— 

Mr. M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm 
and worthy friend, has informed me how much 
you arc pleased to interest yourself in my fate 
as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dear- 
er) my fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one or 
two instances, been patronised by those of your 
character in life, when I was introduced to their 
notice by ***** * friends to them, and hon- 
ored acquaintance to me ; but you are the first 
gentleman in the country whose benevolence 
and goodness of heart have interested him for 
me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not mas- 
ter enough of the etiquette of these matters to 
know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether formal 
duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my 



242 



LETTERS 



thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, 
from the light in which you kindly view me, 
that you will do me the justice to believe this 
letter is not the manoeuvre of the needy, sharp- 
ing author, fastening on those in upper life who 
honor him with a little notice of him or his 
works. Indeed, the situation of poets is gene- 
rally such, to a proverb, as may, in some meas- 
ure, palliate that prostitution of art and talents 
they have at times been guilty of. I do not 
think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary 
concomitant of a poetic turn ; but I believe a 
careless, indolent inattention to economy, is al- 
most inseparable from it ; then there must be, 
in the heart of every bard of Nature's making, 
a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind 
of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way 
of those windfalls of fortune, which frequently 
light on a hardy impudence and foot-licking ser- 
vility. It is not easy to imagine a more help- 
less state than his, whose poetic fancy unfits 
him for the world, and whose character as a 
scholar gives him some pretensions to the poli- 
tesse of life — yet is as poor as I am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas 
ab-ove the peasant's shade, and I have an inde- 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who pre- 
tended in the least to the vianners of the gentle- 
man, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop 
to traduce the morals of such a one as I am ; 
and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with 
that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my 
story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you. 
Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed 
in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, 
too frequently the sport of whim, caprice and 
passion — but reverence to God, and integrity to 
my fellow creatures, I hope I shall ever pre- 
serve. I have no return. Sir, to make you for 
your goodness, but one — a return which, I am 
persuaded will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
vvarm wishes of a grateful heart for your hap- 
piness, and every one of that lovely flock who 
stand to you in a filial relation. If ever Cal- 
umny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friend- 
ship bo by to ward the blow I 



No. XLI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 21s< January, 1788. 

After six weeks' Confinement, I am beginning 
to walk across the room. They have been six 
horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made 
me unfit to read, write or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one could 
resign life as an officer resigns a commission ; 
for I would not take in any poor, ignorant 
•wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a sixpen- 
ny private, and. God knows, a miserable soldier 
enough : now I march to the campaign, a starv- 
ing cadet ; a little more conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
■want bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal 
my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will 
be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, 



I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I shall pay 
my grateful duty at Dunlop-House. 



No. XLII. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO 
THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, \2th February, 1788. 
Some things in your late letters hurt me : not 
that you say them, but that you mistake me. Re- 
ligion, my honored Madam, has only not been 
all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest 
enjoyment. I have indeed been the luckless 
victim of wayward follies : but, alas ! I have 
ever been "more fool than knave." A mathe- 
matician without religion is a probable charac- 
ter ; and an irreligious poet is a monster. 

* Tr tP tF 



No. XLIII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mossgiel, 1th March, 1788. 
Madam, — 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Feb- 
ruary afl'ected me most, so I shall begin my an- 
swer where you ended your letter. That I am 
often a sinner with any little wit I have, I do 
confess : but I have taxed my recollection to no 
purpose to find out when it was employed 
against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a 
great deal worse than I do the devil ; at least, 
as Milton describes him ; and though I may be 
rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it 
myself, I cannot endure it in others. Yon, my 
honored friend, who cannot appear in any light 
but you are sure of being respectable — you can 
afford to pass by an occasion to display your 
wit, because you may depend for fame on your 
sense ; or, if you choose to be silent, you know 
you can rely on the gratitude of many and the 
esteem of all ; but, God help us who are wits 
or witlings by profession, if we stand not for 
fame there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me 
of Coila.* I may say to the fair painter who 
does me so much honor, as Dr. Beattie says to 
Ross the poet of his muse Scota, from which, 
by the by, I took the idea of Coila : ('Tis a 
poem of Beattie's in the Scots dialect, which 
perhaps you have never seen) 

" Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set aold Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' bufte and flegs, 

Bombaz'd and dizzie. 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me. poor hizzie !" 



No. XLIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT OLEGHORN. 

Mauchlme, 31s« March, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 

through a track of melancholy, joyless muirs, 

between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- 

♦ A lady (daughter of Mrs. Dunlop) was making a 
picture from the description of Coila in the Vision. 



LETTERS. 



243 



day, I turned my thoughts to psalms and hymns 
and spiritual songs : and your favorite air Cup- ! 
tain Okean, commg at length into my head, I j 
tried these words to it. You will see that the 
first part of the tune must be repeated.* 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses; but, 
as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it 
with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harrassed with care and anxiety about 
this farming project of mine, that my muse has 
degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
ever picked cinders or followed a tinker. When 
I am fairly got into the routine of business, I 
shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries respecting farming ; at pres- 
ent the world siis such a load on my mind, that 

it has effaced almost every trace of the 1 

in me. I 

My very best compliments and good wishes 
to Mrs. Cleghorn. 



No. XLV. 



I 
FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. j 

Saugldon Mills, 21th April, 1788. 
My Dear Brother Farmer, — 

I was favored with your very kind letter of 
the 31st ult., and consider myself greatly oblig- 
ed to you for your attention in sending me the 
Bongt to my favorite air, Captain Okean. The 
words delight me much, they fit the tune to a 
hair. I wish you would send me a verse or 
two more : and if you have no objection, I 
would have it in the Jacobite style. Sup- 
pose it should be sung after the fatal field of 
CuUoden by the unfortunate Charles, Ten- 
ducci personates the lovely Mary Stuart in the 
song, Queen Mary''s Lamentation. Why may 
not I sing in the person of her great-great-great- 
grandson ?t 

Any skill I have in country business you may 
truly command. Situation, soil, customs of 
countries, may vary from each other, but Farm- 
er Attention is a good farmer in every place. I 
beg to hear from you soon. Mrs. Cleghorn 
joins me in best compliments. 

I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the 
word, your very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. XLVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 28th April, 1788. 
Madam, — 

Your powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made my heart 
ache with penitential pangs, even though I was 
really not guilty. As I commence farmer at 
Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be 
pretty busy ! but that is not all. As I got the 

* Here the Bard gives the first stanza of the "Chev- 
alier's Lament." 
tThe Chevalier'.s Lament. 

J Our Poet took this advice. The whole of this 
beautiful song, as it was afterwards finished, is in- 
serted in the Poems, p. 59. 



offer of the excise-business without solicitation ; 
as it costs me only six months' attendance for 
instructions to entitle me to a commission, 
which commission lies by me. and at any fu- 
ture period, on my simple petition, can be re- 
sumed : I thought five-and-thirty pounds a-year 
was no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if 
fortune, in her jade tricks, should kick him 
down from the little eminence to which she has 
lately helped him up. 

f^or this reason, 1 am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed be- 
fore Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared, 
with the sincerest pleasure, to meet you at the 
Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday 
night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights 
preceding, I had slept in an apartment where 
the force of the winds and rains was only miti- 
gated by being sifted through numberless aper- 
tures in the windows, walls, &.c. In conse- 
quence, I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of 
Tuesday, unable to stir out of bed, with ail the 
miserable effects of a violent cold. 

You see. Madam, the truth of the French 
maxim Le vrai 7i''est pas toujours le vraisembla- 
ble. Your last was so full of expostulation, and 
was something so like the language of an of- 
fended friend, that I began to trei»ble for a cor- 
respondence which I had with grateful pleasure 
set down as one of the greatest enjoyments of 
my future life. 

* * * * 

Your books have delighted me : Virgil, Dry- 
de?i and Tasso, were all equally strangers to 
me : but of this more at large in my next. 



No. XLVII. 



PROM THE REV JOHN SKINNER. 

Linsheart, 28th April, 1788. 
Dear Sir, — 

I received your last with the curious present 
you have favored me with, and would have 
made proper acknowledgments before now, but 
that I have been necessarily engaged in mat- 
ters of a different complexion. And now, that 
I have got a little respite, I make use of it to 
thank you for this valuable instance of your 
good-will, and to assure you that, with the sin- 
cere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem 
both the gift and the giver ; as a small testimo- 
ny of which I have herewith sent you for your 
amusement (and in a form which I hope you 
will excuse for saving postage) the two songs 
I wrote about to you already. Charming Nan- 
cy is the real production of genius in a plough- 
man of twenty years of age at the time of its ap- 
pearing, with no more education than what he 
picked up at an old farmer-grand-father's fire- 
side, though now by the strength of natural 
parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach-field in 
the neighborhood. And I doubt not but you will 
find in it a simplicity and delicacy, with some 
turns of humor, that will please orie of your 
tasie ; at least it pleased me when I first saw it, 
if that can be any recommendation to it. The 
other is entirely descriptive of my own senti- 
ments : and you may make use of one or both 
as you shall see good.* 

* See next page. 



S44 



LETTERS. 



» CHARMING NANCY. 

A SONG BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune— *' HximoT3 of Glen." 

Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 

And .some call sweet Susie the cause of their pain ; 
Some love to be jolly, some love melaiiclioly, 

And some love to sing of the Humors of Glen. 
But my only fancy is my preity Nancy, 

In venting my passion I'll strive to be plain; 
I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 

Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me, 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain. 
Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel ; 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come, be my aiu. 
Her carriage is comely, her language is homely, 

Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main ; 
She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature, 

My charming dear Nancy, O wert thou mine ain ! 

Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning. 

Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene, 
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining. 

My charming sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain 1 
The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 

Array'd like the gowans that grow in yon glen ; 
She's well shap'd andslender.true-hearted and ten- 
der, 

My charming sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

I'll seek thro' the nation for some habitation. 

To shelter my jewel from cold, snow, and rain, 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her ay cheery, 

My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; 
Thou Shalt not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

ril marrow thee, Nancy, when thou ait my ain. 

I'll make true affection the constant direction 

Of loving my Nancy, while life doth remain ; 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be last- 
ing, 

My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, 

To favor another be forward and fain, 
I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her. 

Begone, thou foul Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my ain. 

THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 

BY THE REVEREND J. SKINNER. 

Tune—^^ Dumbarton Drums." 
O ! why should old age so much wound us 1 O, 
There is nothing in't all to confound us, O, 

For how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by. 
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 

We began in the world wi' naething. O, 
And we've jogg'd on and toil'd for the ae thing, O, 
We made use of what we had, 
And our thankful hearts were glad. 
When we got the bit meat and the cleathing, O. 

We have liv'd all our life-time contented, O, 
Since the day we became first acquainted, O, 

It's true we've been but poor, 

And we are so to this hour. 
Yet we never yet repined or lamented, O. 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O, 
By ways we were cunning and stealthy, O, 
But we always had the bliss. 
And what further could we wiss. 
To be pleas'd wi' ourselves, and be healthy, O. 

What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, O, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jennies, O, 

And these I'm certain, are 

More desirable by far. 
Than a pocket full of poor yellow sleenies, O. 

We have seen many wonder and ferlie, O, 
Of changes that almost are yearly, O, 



Among rich folks up and down, 
Both in country and in town, 
Who now live but scrimply and barely, O, 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O, 
A straitened life we see is no rarity, O. 

Indeed we've been in want. 

And our living been but scant, 
I'et we never were reduced to netdy charity, O. 

In this house we first came together, O, 

Where we've long been a Father and a Mither, O; 

And, tho' not of stone and lime, 

It will last us a' our time. 
And, I hope, we shall never need anither, O. 

And when we leave this habitation, O, 
We'll depart with a good commendation, O, 

We'll go hand in hand I wiss, 

To a better house than this. 
To make room for the next generation, O. 

Then why should old age so much wound us ? O, 
There's nothing in't all to confound us, O, 

For how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by. 
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 

You will oblige me by presenting my re- 
spects to your host, Mr. Cruikshank, who has 
given such high approbation to my poor Latini- 
ty; you may let him know, that as I have like- 
wise been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two 
things that I would, if he desires it, submit, not 
to his judgment, but to his amusement ; the 
one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' the Green, 
printed at Aberdeen some years ago; the other, 
Batrachomyomachia Homeri latinis vestita cum 
additamentis, given in lately to Chalmers, to 
print if he pleases. Mr. C. will know Seria 
non semper delectant, nonjoca semper. Semper 
delectant seria mixta jocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments and 
good wishes from. 

Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XLVIII. 



TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

Mauchline, 3d May, 1788. 
Sir,— 

I enclose you one or two more of my baga- 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest gratitude 
have any influence with that great unknown Be- 
ing, who frames the chain of causes and events, 
prosperity and happiness will attend your visit 
to the Continent, and return you safe to your 
native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as 
my privilege to acquaint you with my progress 
in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could 
say it with truth, that next to my little fame, 
and the having it in my power to make life more 
comfortable to those whom nature has made dear 
to me, I shall ever regard your countenance, 
your patronage, your friendly good offices, as 
the most valued consequence of my late success 
in life. 



TO 



No. XLIX. 
EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, ith May, 17S8. 

I do not 



Madam, — 
Dryden's Virgil has delighted me, 



LETTERS. 



245 



know whether the critics will agree with me, 
but the Georgics are to me by far the best of 
Virgil. It is, indeed, a species of writing en- 
tirely new to me, and has filled my head with a 
thousand fancies of emulation: but, alas ! when 
I read the Georgics and then survey my own 
powers, 't is like the idea of a Shetland poney, 
drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, 
to start for the plate. I own I am disappointed 
in the Mneid. Faultless correctness may please, 
and does highly please the lettered critic : but 
to that awful character I have not the most dis- 
tant pretensions. I do not know whether I do 
not hazard my pretensions to be a critic of any 
kind, when I say, that I think Virgil, in many 
instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had 
the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many pas- 
sages where Virgil has evidently copied, but by 
no means improved Homer. Nor can I think 
there is any thing of this owing to the transla- 
tors; for, from every thing I have seen of Dry- 
den, I think him, in genius and fluency of lan- 
guage, Pope's master. I have not perused 
Tasso enough to form an opinion ; in some 
future letter you shall have my ideas of him ; 
though I am conscious my criticisms must be 
very inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have 
ever felt and lamented my want of learning 
most. 



We talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, 
notwithstanding their general stupidity and ras- 
cality, did some of the poor devils the honor to 
commend them. But light be the turf upon his 
breast who taught — " Reverence thyself." We 
looked down on the unpolished wretches, their 
impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose 
puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness 
of his rambles, or tosses in the air in the wan- 
tonness of his pride. 

# * * * 



No, L. 
T O THE SAME. 

21 th May, 1788. 
Madam, — 

I have been torturing my philosophy to no 
purpose to account for that kind partiality of 
yours, which, unlike * * * has followed 
me in my return to the shade of life, with as- 
siduous benevolence. Often did I regret, in the 
fleeting hours of my Will-o'-the-Wisp-appear- 
ance, that '• here I had no continuing city ;" and, 
but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, 
could almost lament the time that a momentary 
acquaintance with wealth and splendor put me 
so much out of conceit with the sworn com- 
panions of my road through life, insignificance 
and poverty, 

» * ♦ * 

There are few circumstances relating to the 
unequal distribution of the good things of this life, 
that give me more vexation (I mean in what I 
see around me,) than the importance the opulent 
bestow on their trifling family affairs, compared 
with the very same things on the contracted 
scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the 
honor to spend an hour or two at a good woman's 
fire-side, where the planks that composed the 
floor were decorated with a splendid carpet, and 
the gay tables sparkled with silver and china. 
'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a 
revolution among those creatures, who, though in 
appearance partakers, and equally noble par- 
takers, of the same nature with Madame, are 
from time to time, their nerves, their sinews, 
their health, strength, wisdom, experience, 
genius, time, nay, a good part of their very 
thoughts, sold for months and years, * * 

* * not only to the necessities, the conve- 
niences, but the caprices of the important few.* 

* Servants, in Scotland, are hired from term to 
term ; i. e. from Whitsunday to Martinmas, &.c. 



No. LI. 
TO THE SAME. 

AT MR. DUNLOP's, HADDINGTON. 

Ellisland, I3th June, 1788. 
" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravel'd, fondly turns to thee, 
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain. 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." 

Qoldsmith, 

This is the second day, my honored friend, 
that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- 
mate of an old smoky Spence ; far from every 
object I love, or by whom I am beloved ; nor 
any acquaintance older than yesterday, except 
Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while 
uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my 
awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul 
in the hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- 
jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sen- 
sibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy 
side by a series of misfortunes and disappoint- 
ments, at that period of my existence when the 
soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voy- 
age of fife, is, I believe the principal cause of 
this unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 

Or what need he regard his sinffle woea 1" &.c. 

Your surmise. Madam, is just; I am indeed 
a husband. 

* * * * 

I found a once much-loved and still much- 
loved female, literally and truly cast out to the 
mercy of the naked elements; but I enabled 
her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no spor- 
ting with a fellow-creature's happiness or mis- 
ery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
of disposition : a warm heart, gratefully devot- 
ed with all its powers to love me ; vigorous 
health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the 
best advantage by a more than commonly hand- 
some figure ; these, I think in a woman, may 
make a good wife, though she should never have 
read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and 
New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter 
assembly than a penny-pay wedding. 



No. Lll. 
TO MR. P. HILL 
My Dear Hill, — 



I shall say nothing at all to your mad prea^ 



246 



LETTERS 



ent — you have long and often been of important 
service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on 
conferring obligations until I shall not be able to 
lift up my face before you. In the mean time 
as Sir Roger de CoverJy, because it happened 
to be a cold day in which he made his will, or- 
dered his servants great coats for mourning, so, 
because I have been this week plagued with an 
indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine 
old ewe milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cessful knavery, and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the 
proud man's wine so offends my palate that it 
chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilised, 
feathered, pert, coxcomb, is so disgustful in my 
nostril, that my stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience and 
a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no 
niggard of your good things among your friends, 
and some of them are in much need of a slice. 
There in my eye is our friend, Smellie ; a man 
positively of the first abilities and greatest 
strength of mind, as well as one ofthe best hearts 
and keenest wits that I have ever met with; when 
you see him, as alas ! he too is smarting at the 
pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravated 
by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a bit 
of my cheese alone will not cure hira ; but if 
you add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd 
a magnum of right Oporto; you will see his sor- 
rows vanish like the morning mist before the 
summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my only 

brother, that I have on earth, and one of the 
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
the name of friend, if a luncheon ot my cheese 
would help to rid him of some of his superabun- 
dant modesty, you would do well to give it him. 

David,* with his Courant, comes too, across 
my recollection, and I beg you will help him 
largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, toenable 
hirn to digest those — bedaubing paragraphs with 
•which he is eternally larding the lean characters 
of certain great men in a certain great town. I 
grant you the periods are very well turned; so, 
a fresh egg is a very good thing, but when 
thrown at a man in a pillory it does not at all 
improve his figure, not to mention the irrepara- 
ble loss of the egg. 

My facetious triend, D r, I would wish 

also to be a partaker: not to digest his spleen, 
for that he laughs off, but to digest his last night's 
wine at the last field day of the Crochallan 
corps.t 

Among our common friends, I must not for- 
get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. 
The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a 
world unworthy of having such a fellow as he is 
in it, I know sticks in his stomach ; and if you 
can help him to any thing that will make him 
a little easier on that score, it will be very obli- 
ging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a con- 
tented happy man, that 1 know not what can 

♦Printer ofthe Edinburgh Evening Courant. 
t A club of choice spirits. 



annoy him, except perhaps he may not have 
got the better of a parcel of modest anecdotes 
which a certain poet gave him one night at sup- 
per, the last time the said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of 
law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- 
fessedly. — The faculty are beyond my prescrip- 
tion. As to their clients, that is another thing : 
God knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of eru- 
dition, and their liberality of sentiment ; their 
total want of pride, and their detestation of hy- 
pocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place 
them far, far above eithermy praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, whom 
I have the honor to call friend, the Laird of 
Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to the land- 
lord of the King's-arms inn here, to have, at 
the next county-meeting, a large ewe-milk 
cheese on the table, for the benefit of the Dum- 
friesshire whigs, to enable them to digest the 
Duke of Queensberry's late political conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you 
would not digest double postage. 



No. LIIL 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 2d August, 1788. 
Honored Madam, — 

Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight 
to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with 
you at the quantum of your luck-petuiy : but, 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- 
ing very heartily at the noble Lord's apology for 
the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarcely an 
opportunity of calling at the post-oflSce once in 
a tortnight. I am six miles irom Dumfries, am 
scaicely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have lit- 
tle acquaintance in the neighborhood. Besides, 
1 am novv very busy on my farm, building a 
dwelling-house ; as at present I am almost an 
evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce 
" wliere to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears to my eyes. " The heart know- 
eth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermed- 
dleth not therewith." The repository of these 
"sorrows of the heart," is a kind of sanctum 
sanctorum; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and 
that too at particular sacred times, who dares 
enter into them. 

"Heaven oft tears the bosom chords 
Thai nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake 
of the auttior. Instead of entering on this sub- 
ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I 
wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman 
in my Nithsdale neighborhuod. They are al- 
most the only favors the muses have conferred 
on me in that country." 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the 
following were the production of yesterday, as 
I jogged through the wild hills of New-Cum- 

* The lines transcribed were those written in Fri- 
ara-Carse Hermitage. See Poems p. 45. 



LETTERS. 



247 



nock. I intend inserting them, or something 
like them, in an epistle I am going to write to 
the gentleman on whose friendship my excise- 
hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fintry, one of 
the worthiest and most accomplished gentle- 
men, not only of this country, but I will dare to 
say it, this age. The following are just the first 
crude thoughts " unhouseled, unanointed, un- 
annealed." 



Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train : 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
The world were bleas'd. did bliss on them depend ; 
Ah ! that "the friendly e'er should want a friend!" 
The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule ; 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon / should ; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns they're 
good? 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy! 
But come 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
what you tell me of Anthony's writing to me. 
I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. I 
have just room for an old Roman farewell I 



No. LIV. 
TO THE SAME. 
Mauchline, iOth August, 1788. 

My much honored Friend, — 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found 
it, as well as another valued friend — my wife, 
waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both 
with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you. Madam, I do not sit down 
to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing 
every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of 
Great Brttain in Parliament Assembled, an- 
swering a speech from the best of kings ! I 
express myself in the fulness of my heart, and 
may perhaps be guilty of neglecting some of 
your kind inquiries ; but not, from your very 
odd reason, that I do not read your letters. All 
your epistles for several months have cost me 
nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, 
or a deep felt sentiment of veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical woman 



When she first found herself " as women wish 
to be who love their lords," as I loved her near- 
ly to distraction, we took steps for a private 
marriage. Her parents got the hint : and not 
only forbade me her company and the house, 
but, on my rumored West-Indian voyage, got 
a warrant to put me in jail till I should find se- 
curity in my about-to-be paternal relation. You 
know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my ec- 
latant return to Mauchline, I was made very 
welcome to visit my girl. The usual conse- 
quences began to betray her; and as 1 was at 
that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she 
was turned, literally turned out of doors: and I 



wrote to a friend to shelter her till my return, 
when our marriage was declared. Her happi. 
ness or misery were in my hands ; and who 
could trifie with such a deposite ? 

♦ » # • 

I can easily/ancy a more agreeable compan- 
ion for my journey of life, but, upon my honor, 
I have never seen the individual instance. 

* * m * 

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favorite studies, relished my 
favorite authors, &c. without probably entailing 
on me, at the same time, expensive living, fan- 
tastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all 
the other blessed boarding-school acquirements, 
which pardon7iez moi, Madame,) are sometimes, 
to be found among females of the upper ranks, 
but almost universally pervade the misses of the 
would-be gentry. 

* ♦ * » 

I like your way in your church-yard lucubra- 
tions. Thoughts that are the spontaneous re- 
sult of accidental situations, either respecting 
health, place, or company, have often a strength 
and always an originality, that would in vain be 
looked for in fancied circumstances and studied 
paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of 
keeping a letter, in progression, by me, to send 
you when the sheet is written out. Now I talk 
of sheets, 1 must tell you my reason for writing 
to you on paper of this kind, is my pruriency 
of writing to you at large. A page of post is 
on such a dissocial narrow-minded scale that I 
cannot abide it; and double letters, at least in 
my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a mon- 
strous tax in a close correspondence. 



No. LV. 
TO THE SAME. 
Ellisland, 16<A August, 1788. 
T am in a fine disposition, my honored friend, 
to send you an elegiac epistle, and want only 
genius to make it Shenstonian. 
" Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wint'ry sky ?" 
m * * * 

My increasing cares in this, as yet. strange 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity — consciousness of my own inabihty 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children ; — I 
could indulge these reflections, till my humor 
should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that 
would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have 
sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon my 
soul, I always find that the most sovereign balm 
for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner for 

the first time. My reception was quite to my 
mind: from the lady of the house, quite flatter- 
ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, 
impromptu. She repeated one or two to the ad- 
miration of all present. My suffrage as a pro- 
fessional man, was expected; I for once went 
agonising over the belly of my conscience. 
Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods — 



248 



LETTERS 



Independence of Spirit and Integrity of Soul ! 
In the course of conversation, Johnson's Musi- 
cal Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with 
the music, was talked of. We got a song on 
the harpsichord, beginning, 

"Raving winds around her blowing."* 

The air was much admired ; the lady of the 
house asked me whose were the words; " Mine, 
Madam — they are indeed my very best verses;" 
she took not the smallest notice of them ! The 
old Scottish proverb says well, "king's caff is 
better than ither folk's corn." I was going to 
make a New Testament quotation about "cast- 
ing pearls ;" but that would be too virulent, for 
the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste. 
* # * * 

After all that has been said on the other side 
of the question, man is by no means a happy 
creature. I do not speak of the selected few 
favored by partial heaven ; whose souls are 
turned to gladness, amid riches and honors and 
prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglect- 
ed many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose 
days, are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 
transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish 
ballad called The Life and Age of Man; begin- 
ning thus : 

"Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand- uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long blind 
ere he died, during which time, his highest en- 
joyment was to sit down and cry, while my mo- 
ther would sing the simple old song of The Life 
and Age of Man. 

It is this way of thinking, it is these melan- 
choly truths, that make religion so precious to 
the poor, miserable children of men — if it is a 
mere phantom, existing only in the heated im- 
agination of enthusiasm. 

" What truth on earth so precious as the lie ?" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a 
little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart 
always give the cold philosophizings the lie. 
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God ; the correspond- 
ence fixed with heaven; the pious supplication 
and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicis- 
situdes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet 
with these in the court, the palace, in the glare 
of public life ? No : to find them in their pre- 
cious importance and divine efficacy, we must 
search among the obscure recesses of disappoint- 
ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the length of my letters. I 
return to Ayrshire middle of next week ; and it 
quickens my pace to think that there will be a 
letter from you waiting me there. I must be 
here again very soon for my harvest. 



you at Athole- house, I did not think so soon of 
asking a favor of you. When Lear, in Shak- 
speare, asks old Kent why he wishes to be in his 
service, he answers, " Because you have that 
in your face which I could like to call master." 
For some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit 
your patronage. You know, I dare say, of an 
application I have lately made to your Board to 
be admitted an officer of excise. I have, accor- 
ding to form, been examined by a supervisor, 
and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a re- 
quest for an order for instructions. In this af- 
fair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too 
much need a patronising friend. Propriety of 
conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as 
an officer, I dare engage for : but with anything 
like business, except manual labor, I am total- 
ly unacquainted. 

• * * * 

I had intended to have closed my late appear- 
ance on the stage of life in the character of a 
country farmer ; but after discharging some fil- 
ial and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight 
for existence in that miserable manner, which I 
have lived to see throw a venerable parent into 
the jaws of a jail : whence death, the poor man's 
last and often best friend, rescued him. 

I know. Sir, that to need your goodness is to 
have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg your 
patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be 
appointed to a division, where by the help of 
rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- 
pendence so dear to my soul, but which has 
been too often so distant from my situation.* 



No. LVI. 



TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. OF FINTRY. 

Sir,— 
When I had the honor of being introduced to 
* See Poems, p. 80. 



No. LVII. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchline, \st October, 1788. 

I have been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time my chief reading has 
been the " Address to Loch -Lomond,' you 
were so obliging as to send me. Were I em- 
pannelled one of the author's jury to determine 
his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my 
verdict should be " guilty ! A poet of Nature's 
making.'' It is an excellent method for im- 
provement, and what I believe every poet does, 
to place some favorite classic author, in his own 
walk of study and composition. Though your 
author had not mentioned the name I could 
have, at half a glance, guessed his model to be 
Thomson. Will my brother-poet forgive me, 
if I venture to hint, that his imitation of that 
immortal bard is, in two or three places, rather 
more servile than such a genius as his requir- 
ed — e. g. 

To sooth the madding passions all to peace. 

ADDRESS. 

To sooth the throbbing passions into peace. 

THOMSOW. 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, harmony 
and elegance of versification, fully equal to the 
Seaso7is. Like Thomson, too, he has looked 
into nature for himself; you meet with no cop- 
ied de.'^cription. One particular criticism I made 
at first reading ; in no one instance has he said 
too much. He never flags in his progress, but, 

* Here followed the poetical part of the Epistle, 
given in the Poems, p 60. 



LETTERS. 



249 



like a true poet of Nature's making;, kindles in 
his course. His beginning is simple and mod- 
est, as if distrustful of the strength of his pinion ; 
only, I do not altogether like — 

" Truth, 
"The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is no- 
bly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may be 
but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in li7ie 
7, page 6, " Great Lake," too much vulgarized 
by every-day language, for so sublime a poem? 

"Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of 
a comparison with other lakes is at once har- 
monious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must 
sweep the 

" Winding margin of a hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows mountains blue 
— the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the 
wooded isles — the digression on the yew tree 
— "Ben-Lomond's lofiy cloud envelop'd head,'' 
&c. are beautiful. A tiiunder-storm is a sub- 
ject which has been often tried; yet our poet in 
his grand picture, has interjected a circumstance 
so far as I know, entirely original : 

"The gloom 
Deep-seam'd with frequent streaks of moving lire." 

In his preface to the storm, " The glens how- 
dark between !" is noble highland landscape ! 
The "rain ploughing the red mould," too, is 
beautifully fancied. Ben Lomond's " lofty path- 
less top," is a good expression ; and the sur- 
rounding view from it is truly great : the 

" Silver mist 
" Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described : and here he has contrived to 
enliven his poem with a little of that passion 
which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this epis- 
ode is a beauty upon the whole ; but the swain's 
wish to carry " some faint idea of the vision 
bright," to entertain her " partial listening ear," 
is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, the 
most beautiful passages in the whole poem are 
the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch- 
Lomond's "hospitable flood; their wheeling 
round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. ; and 
the glorious description of the sportsman. This 
last is equal to anything in the Seasons. The 
idea of " the floating tribes distant seen, far 
glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he 
is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poet- 
ic genius. " The howling winds," the " hide- 
ous roar" of " the white cascades," are all in 
the same style. 

I forget that, while T am thus holding forth, 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I am 
perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, how- 
ever, mention, that the last verse of the six- 
teenth page is one of the most elegant compli- 
ments I have ever seen. I must likewise no- 
tice that beautiful paragraph, beginning, "The 
gleaming lake," &.c. I dare not go into the 
particular beauties of the two last paragraphs, 
but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I 
should like to know who the author is; but, 



whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks tor the entertainment he has 
aflbrded me.* 

A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two books. Letters on the Reliifion es- 
sential toman, a book you sent me before ; and, 
The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher the 
greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first op- 
portunity. The Bible you sent me is truly ele- 
gant, 1 only wish it had been in two volumes. 



No. LVHL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM 
MAINS. 

Mauchline, 13th November, 1788. 
Madam, — 

I had the very great pleasure of dining at 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- 
men because they are weak ; if it is so, poets 
must be weaker still ; for Misses R. and K., 
and Miss G. M'K., with their flattering atten- 
tions and artful compliments, absolutely turned 
my head. I own they did not lard me over as 
many a poet does his patron * * * * ^ut 
they so intoxicated me with their sly insinua- 
tions and delicate inuendoes of compliment, that 
if it had not been for a lucky recollection, how 
much additional weight and lustre your good 
opinion and friendship must give me in that cir- 
cle, I had certainly looked upon myself as a 
person of no small consequence. I dare not 
say one word how much I was charmed with 
the Major's friendly welcome, elegant manner, 
and acute remark, lest I should be thought to 
balance my orientalisms of applause over against 
the finest queyt in Ayrshire, which he made 
me a present of to help and adorn my farm- 
stock. As it was on Hallowday, I am deter- 
mined annually, as that day returns, to decorate 
her horns with an ode of gratitude to the family 
of Dunlop. 



So soon as T know of your arrival at Dunlop, 
I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a 
day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, un- 
der the guarantee of the Majors hospitality. 
There will be soon threescore and ten miles 
of permanent distance between us ; and now 
that your friendship and friendly correspondence 
is entwisted with the heart-strings of my enjoy- 
ment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy 
day of "The feast of reason and the flow of 
soul.'' 



No. LIX. 



TO * * ♦ * 

November 8, 1788. 
Sir,— 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with 
which someof our philosophers and gloomy sec- 

* The poem, entitled, Jin Address to Loch Lomond, 
is said to be written by a gentleman, now one of the 
Masters of the High-school at Edinburgh ; and the 
same who translated the beautiful story of the Paria, 
as published in the Bee of Dr. Anderson. E. 

i Heifer. 



250 



LETTERS, 



taries have branded our nature — the principle 
of universal selfishness, the proneness to all eyil, 
they have given us ; still the detestation in which 
inhumanity to the distressed, or insolence to the 
fallen, are held by all mankind, shows that they 
are not natives of the human heart. Even the 
unhappy partner of our kind, who is undone, the 
bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes; — 
who but sympathises with the miseries of this 
ruined profligate brother ? We forget the inju- 
ries, and feel for the man. 

I went, last Wednesday to my parish-church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- 
ment to the Author of all Good, for the con- 
sequent blessings of the glorious Revolution. 
To that auspicious event we owe no less than 
our liberties, civil and religious : to it we are 
likewise indebted for the present Royal Family, 
the ruling features of whose administration have 
ever been mildness to the subject, and tender- 
ness of his rightd. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive 
manner in which the reverend gentleman men- 
tioned the House of Stewart, and which, I am 
afraid, was too much the language of the day. 
We may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance 
from past evils, without cruelly raking up the 
ashes of those whose misfortune it was, perhaps 
as much as their crime, to be the authors of 
those evils ; and we may bless God for all his 
goodness to us as a nation, without, at the same 
time, cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, 
who only harbored ideas, and made attempts, 
that most of us would have done had we been 
in their situation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical house of Stew- 
art,'' may be said with propriety and justice 
when compared with the present Royal Family, 
and the sentiments of our days ; but is there no 
allowance to be made for the manners of the 
time ? Were the royal competitors of the 
Stewarts more attentive to their subjects' rights? 
Might not the epithets of " bloody and tyran- 
nical," be with at least equal justice applied 
to the House of Tudor, of York, or any other 
of their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to 
be this: — At that period, the science of govern- 
ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- 
tween king and subject, was, like other sciences 
and other knowledge, just in its infancy, emer- 
ging from dark ages of ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stewarts only contended for preroga- 
tives which they knew their predecessors en- 
joyed, and which they saw their contemporaries 
enjoying; but these prerogatives were inimical 
to the happiness of a nation and the rights of 
subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of science which 
had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch 
of France, for example, was victorious over the 
struggling liberties of his people ; with us, 
luckily, the monarch failed, and his unwarrant- 
able pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and 
happiness. Whether it was owing to the wis- 
dom of leading individuals, or to the justling of 
parties, I cannot pretend to determine ; but 
likewise, happily for us, the kingly power was 



shifted into another branch of the family, who, as 
they owed the throne solely to the call of a free 
people, could claim nothing inconsistent with 
the covenanted terms which placed them there. 

The Stewarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the folly and impracticability of 
their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they 
failed I bless God ; but cannot join in the ridi- 
cule against them. Who does not know that 
the abilities or defects of leaders and command- 
ers are often hidden, until put to the touchstone 
of exigency ; and that there is a caprice of for- 
tune, an omnipotence in particular accidents 
and conjunctures of circumstances, which exalt 
us as heroes, or brand us as madmen, just as 
they are for or against us ? 

Man, Mr, Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
consistent being : who would believe Sir, that 
in this, our Augustan age of liberality and re- 
finement, while we seem so justly sensible and 
jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated 
with such indignation against the very memory 
of those who would have subverted them — that 
a certain people under our national protection, 
should complain, not against our monarch and 
a few favorite advisers, but against our whole 
LEGISLATIVE BODY, for similar oppression, and 
almost in the very same terms, as our forefath- 
ers did of the House of Stewart ! I will not, I 
cannot enter into the merits of the cause, but I 
dare say, the American Congress, in 1776, will 
be allowed to be as able and as enlightened as 
the English Convention was in 1688 ; and that 
their posterity will celebrate the centenary of 
their deliverance from us, as duly and sincerely 
as we do ours from the opsressive measures of 
the wrong-headed House of Stewart. 

To conclude. Sir: let every man who has a 
tear for the many miseries incident to humanity, 
feel for a family as ilIu.strious as any in Europe, 
and unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and 
let every Briton, (and particularly every Scots- 
man,) who ever looked with reverential pity on 
the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal 
mistakes of the kings of his forefathers.* 



No. LX. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, nth Dec. 1788. 

My dear, honored Friend, — 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just 
read, makes me very unhappy. "Almost 
blind, and wholly deaf," are melancholy news 
of human nature ; but when told of a much- 
loved and honored friend, they carry misery in 
the sound. Goodness on your part, and grati- 
tude on mine, began a tie, which has gradually 
and strongly entwisted itself among the dearest 
chords of my bosom, and I tremble at the 
omens of your late and present ailing habits 
and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- 
ters widely, when you forbid my waiting on 
you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. 
My small scale of farming is exceedingly more 
simple and easy than what you have lately seen 
at Moreham IVIains. But be that as it may, the 

* This letter was sent to the piil lisher of some 
newspaper, probably the publistieroi the Edinburgh 
Evening Courant. 



LETTERS. 



251 



heart of the man, and the fancy of the poet, are 
the two grand considerations lor which I live : 
if miry ridges and dirty dunghills are to engross 
the best part of the functions of my soul im- 
mortal, I had better been a rook or a magpie at 
once, and then I should not have been plagued 
with any idea superior to breaking of clods, and 
picking up grubs : not to mention barn-door 
cocks or mallards, creatures with which I 
could almost exchange lives at any time — If 
you continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be 
no great pleasure to either of us ; but if I hear 
you are got so well again as to be able to relish 
conversation, look you to it. Madam, for I will 
make my threatenings good. I am to be at the 
new-year-day fair of Ayr, and by all that is 
sacred in the word Friend ! I will come and see 
you. 

* * # ♦ 

Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old school-fellow and friend, was 
truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the 
world ! — They spoil these " social offsprings of 
the heart." Two veterans of the "men of the 
world" would have met with little more heart- 
workings than two old hacks worn out on the 
road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, " Auld 
lang syne" exceedingly expressive ? There is 
an old song and tune which has often thrilled 
through my soul. You know I am an enthusi- 
ast in old Scotch songs : I shall give you the 
verses on the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. 
Kerr will save you the postage.* 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven- 
inspired poet who composed this glorious frag- 
ment ! There is more of the fire of native ge- 
nius in it than half a dozen of modern English 
Bacchanalians. Now I am on my hobby-horse, 
I cannot help inserting two other stanzas which 
please me mightily. t 



No. LXI. 



TO MISS DA VIES , 

A young lady who had heard he had been making a 
Ballad on her, enclosing that Ballad. 

December, 1788. 
Madam, — 

I understand my very worthy neighbor, Mr. 
Riddle, has informed you that 1 have made you 
the subject of some verses. There is something 
so provoking in the idea of being the burden of 
a ballad, that I do not think Job or Moses, 
though such patterns of patience and meekness, 
could have resisted the curiosity to know what 
that ballad was : so my worthy friend has done 
me a mischief, which, I dare say, he never in- 
tended, and reduced me to the unfortunate al- 
ternative of leaving your curiosity ungratified, 
or else disgusting you with foolish verses, the 
unfinished production of a random moment, and 
never meant to have met your ear. I have heard 
or read somewhere of a gentleman, who had some 
genius, much eccentricity, and very considera- 
ble dexterity with his pencil. In the accidental 

* Here follows the aong of Jluld lang syne, as print- 
ed in the poems. E. 

t Here followed the song. My Bonnie Mary. Vo" 
ems, p. 27. 



groupe of life into which one is thrown, wherever 
this gentleman met with a character in a more 
than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, he 
used to steal a sketch of the lace, merely, as he 
said, as a nota bene to point out the agreeable 
recollection to his memory. What this gentle- 
man's pencil was to him, is my muse to me: 
and the verses I do myself the honor to send 
you are a memento exactly of the same kind 
that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, 
but 1 am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt, 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
mankind, that when I meet with a person " after 
my own heart," 1 positively feel what an ortho- 
dox protestant would call a species of idolatry, 
which acts on my fancy like inspiration ; and I 
can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, 
than an Eolian harp can refuse its tones to the 
streaming air. A distich or two would be the 
consequence, though the object which hit my 
fancy were gray-bearded age : but where my 
theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose 
personal charms, wit, and sentiment, are equal- 
ly striking and unaffected, by heavens ! though 
I had lived threescore years a married man, 
and threescore years before I was a married 
man, my imagination would hallow the very 
idea ; and I am truly sorry that the enclosed stan- 
zas have done such poor justice to such a sub- 
ject. 



No. LXII. 



FROM MR. G. BURNS. 

Mossgiel, \st Jan. 1789. 
Dear Brother, — 

I have just finished my new-year's-day break- 
fast in the usual form, which naturally makes 
me call to mind the days of former years, and 
the society in which we used to begin them : 
and when I look at our family vicissitudes, 
" thro' the dark postern of time long elapsed.'' 
I cannot help remarking to you, my dear bro- 
ther, how good the God of Seasons is to us, 
and that, however some clouds may seem to 
lower over the portion of time before us, we 
have great reason to hope that all will turn out 
well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the sea- 
son to you and Mrs. Burns, and beg you will 
remember us in the same manner to William, 
the first time you see him. 

I am, dear brother, yours, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



No. LXIIL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisla7id, New- Year- Day Morning. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes , 
and would to God that I came under the apos- 
tle James's description ! — the praijer of a right- 
eous maji availeth much. In that case, Madam, 
you should welcome in a year full of blessings : 
every thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity 



5J52 



LETTERS, 



and self- enjoyment, should be removed, and 
every pleasure that frail humanity can taste 
Bhould be yours. I own myself so little a pres- 
byterian, that I approve of set times and sea- 
eons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, 
for breaking in on that habituated routine of 
life and thought which is so apt to reduce our 
existence to a kind of instinct, or even some- 
times, and with some minds, to a state very lit- 
tle superior to mere machinery. 

This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy 
blue-skyed noon, some time about the begin- 
ning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day 
about the end of autumn ; — these, time out of 
mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. 



I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in 
the Spectator, "The Vision of Mirza;" a piece 
that struck my young fancy before I was capa- 
ble of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables. 
*' On the fifth day of the moon, which, accord- 
ing to the custom of my forefathers. I always 
keep holy, after having washed myself, and of- 
fered up my morning devotions, f ascended the 
high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of 
the day in meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the 
substance or structure of our souls, so cannot 
account for those seeming caprices in them, that 
one should be particularly pleased with this 
thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a 
different cast, makes no extraordinary impres- 
sion. I have some favorite flowers in spring, 
among which are the mountain-daisy, the hare- 
bell, the fox-glove, the wild-brier-rose, the 
budding-birch, and the hoary-hawthorn, that I 
view and hang over with particular delight. I 
never heard the loud solitary whistle of the 
curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing 
cadence of a troop of gray plover in an autum- 
nal morning, without feeling an elevation of 
soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. 
Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be 
owing. Are we a piece of machinery, which, 
like the Eolian harp, passive, takes the impres- 
sion of the passing accident? Or do these 
workings argue something within us above the 
trodden clod? I own myself partial to such 
proofs of those awful and important realities — a 
God that made all things — man's immaterial 
and immortal nature — and a world of weal or 
woe beyond death and the grave. 



No. LXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 
EUisland, near Dumfries, ith Jan. 1789. 
Sir,— 

As often as I think of writing to you. which 
has been three or four times every week these 
six months, it gives me something so like the 
look of an ordinary sized statue offering at a 
conversation with the Rhodian colossus, that 
my mind misgives me, and the affair always 
miscarries somewhere between purpose and re- 
solve. I have, at last, got some business with 
you, and business-letters are written by the 
style-book. I say my business is with you Sir, 



for you never had any with me, except the bu- 
siness that benevolence has in the mansion of 
poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet were 
formerly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I 
know that a very great deal of my laie eclat was 
owing to the singularity of my situation, and 
the honest prejudice of Scotsmen ; but still, as I 
said in the preface to my first edition, I do look 
upon myself as having some pretensions from 
Nature to the poetic character. I have not a 
doubt but the knack, the aptitude to learn the 
Muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by Him, " who 
forms the secret bias of the soul ;" — but 1 as 
firmly believe, that excellence'm the profession is 
the fruit of industry, labor, attention, and pains. 
At least I am resolved to try my doctrine by 
the test of experience. Another appearance 
from the press I put off" to a very distant day, a 
day that may never arrive — but poesy I am de- 
termined to prosecute with all my vigor. Na- 
ture has given very few, if any, of the profes- 
sion, the talents of shining in every species of 
composition. I shall try (for until trial it is im- 
possible to know) whether she has qualified me 
to shine in any one. The worst of it is, by the 
time one has finished a piece, it has been so of- 
ten viewed and reviewed before the mental eye 
that one loses, in a good measure, the powers 
of critical discrimination. Here the best crite- 
rion I know is a friend — not only of abilities to 
judge, but with good-nature enough, like a pru- 
dent teacher with a young learner, to praise, 
perhaps, a little more than is exactly just, lest 
the thin-skinned animal fall into that most de- 
plorable of all poetic diseases — heartbreaking 
despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already 
immensely indebted to your goodness, ask the 
additional obligation of your being that friend 
to me ? I enclose you an essay of mine in a 
walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean the 
epistle addressed to R. G. Esq. or Robert Gra- 
ham, of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman ol uncommon 
vyorth, to whom 1 lie under very great obliga- 
tions. The story of the poem, like most of my 
poems, is connected with my own story ; and 
to give you the one I must give you something 
of the other. I cannot boast of — 



I believe I shall, in whole. lOOl. copy-right 
included, clear about 400Z. some little odds ; and 
even part of this depends upon what the gentle- 
man has yet to settle with me. I give you this 
information, because you did me the honor to 
interest yourself much in my welfare. 
* * * * 

To give the rest of my story in brief, T have 
married " my Jean," and taken a farm : with 
the first step, I have every day more and more 
reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rather 
the reverse. I have a younger brother who sup- 
ports my aged mother ; another still younger 
brother and three sisters, in a farm. On my 
last return from Edinburgh, it cost me about 
180Z. to save them Irom ruin. Not that I have 
lost so much — I only interposed between my 
brother and his impending fate by the loan of so 
much. I give myself no airs on this, for it was 
mere selfishness on my part : I was conscious 
that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty 
heavily charged ; and I thought that throwing a 
Uttle filial piety, and fraternal affection, into the 



LETTERS 



253 



scale in my favor, might help to smooth matters 
at the grand reckoning. There is still one 
thing would make my circumstances quite easy. 
I have an excise- officer's commission, and I live 
in the midst of a country division. My request 
to Mr. Graham, who is one of the commission- 
ers of excise, was, if in his power, to procure 
me that division. If I were very sanguine, I 
might hope that some of my great patrons might 
procure me a treasury warrant for supervisor, 
surveyor-general, &c. 



Thus secure of a livelihood, "to thee, sweet 
poetry, delightful maid I" I would consecrate 
my future days. 



No. LXV. 



TO PROFESSOR D. STEWART. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 20th Jan. 1789. 
Sib,— 

The enclosed sealed packet T sent to Edin- 
burgh a few days after I had the happiness of 
meeting you in Ayrshire, but you were gone for 
the Continent. I have added a few more of my 
productions, those for which I am indebted to 
the Nithsdale Muses. The piece inscribed to 
R. G. Esq. is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Gra- 
ham of Fintry, accompanying a request for his 
assistance in a matter, to me, of very great mo- 
ment. To that gentleman I am already doub- 
ly indebted, for deedsof kindness of serious im- 
port to my dearest interests, done in a manner 
grateful to the delicate feelings of sensibility. 
This poem is a species of composition new to 
me ; but I do not intend it shall be my last es- 
say of the kind, as you will see by the " Poet's 
Progress." These fragments, if my design suc- 
ceeds, are but a small part of the intended whole. 
I propose it shall be the work of my utmost ex- 
ertions ripened by years : of course f do not 
wish it much known. The fragment, begin- 
ning " A little, upright, pert, tart," &c. I have 
not shown to man living, till now I send it you. 
It forms the postulata, the axioms, the defini- 
tion of a character, which if it appear at all, 
shall be placed in a variety of lights. This par- 
ticular part I send you merely as a sample of my 
hand at portrait-sketching ; but lest idle conjec- 
ture should pretend to point out the original, 
please let it be for your single, sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble lo 
a gentleman who has treated me with such mark- 
ed benevolence and peculiar kindness ; who has 
entered into my interests with so much zeal, 
and on whose critical decisions I can so fully 
depend ? A poet as I am by trade, these deci- 
sions to me are of the last consequence. My 
late transient acquaintance among some of the 
mere rank and file of greatness, I resign with 
ease ; but to the distinguished champions of 
genius and learning, I shall be ever ambitious 
of being known. The native genius and accu- 
rate discernment in Mr. Stewart's critical stric- 
tures ; the justness (iron justice, for he has no 
bowels of compassion for a poor poetic sinner) 
of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy of 



Professor Dalzel's taste, I shall ever revere. 1 
shall be in Edinburgh some time next month. 
I have the honor to be. Sir, 
Your highly obliged, 

And very humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. LXVI. 



TO BISHOP GEDDES. 
Ellisland, near Dumfries, 3d Feb. 1789. 

Venerable Father, — 

As I am conscious, that wherever I am, you 
do me the honor to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- 
ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination to attend to 
those great and important questions — what I 
am ? where I am ? and for what I am destined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of tho man, 
there was ever but one side on which I was ha- 
bitually blameable, and there I have secured 
myself in the way pointed out by Nature and 
Nature's God. I was sensible that, to so help- 
less a creature as a poor poet, a wife and family 
were encumbrances, which a species of pru- 
dence would bid him shun ; but when the alter- 
native was, being at eternal warfare with my- 
self on account of habitual follies, to give them 
no worse name, which no general example, no 
licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would 
to me ever justify, I must have been a fool to 
have hesitated, and a madman to have made an- 
other choice. 



In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my farm ; 
but should they fail, I have an excise commis- 
sion, which on my simple petition, will at any 
time procure me bread. There is a certain stig- 
ma affixed to the character of an excise officer, 
but I do not intend to borrow honor from any 
profession ; and though the salary be compara- 
tively small, it is great to anything that the first 
twenty-five years of my life taught me to ex- 
pect. 



Thus, with a rational aim, and method in life, 
you may easily guess, my reverend and much 
honored friend, that my characteristical trade is 
not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than ever 
an enthusiast to the Muses. I am determined 
to study man, and nature, and in that view 
incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and cor- 
rections of years can enable me to produce some- 
thing worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been 
tuning my lyre on the banks of theNith. Some 
large poetic plans that are floating in my imagi- 
nation, or partly put in execution, I shall im- 
part to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
ing with you : which if you are then in Edin- 
burgh, I shall have about the beginning of 
March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honor me, you must still al- 
low me to challenge ; for with whatever uncon- 



254 



LETTERS. 



cern T give up my transient connexion with the 
merely great, I cannot lose the patronizing no- 
tice of the learned and good, without the bitter- 
est regret. 



No. LXVII. 

FROM THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

2d Jan. 1789. 

Sir,— 

If you have lately seen Mrs. Dunlop, of 
Dunlop, you have certainly heard of the author 
of the verses which accompany this letter. He 
was a man highly respectable for every accom- 
plishment and virtue which adorns the charac- 
ter of a man or a christian. To a great degree 
of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, was ad- 
ded an invincible modesty of temper, which pre- 
vented in a great degree, his figuring in life, and 
confined the perfect knowledge of his character 
and talents to the small circle of his chosen 
friends. He was untimely taken from us, a few 
weeks ago, by an inflammatory fever, in the 
prime of life — beloved by all who enjoyed his 
acquaintance, and lamented by all who have any 
regard for virtue and genius. There is a wo 
pronounced in Scripture against the person, 
whom all men speak well of ; if ever that wo 
fell upon the head of mortal man, it fell upon 
him. He has left behind him a considerable 
number of compositions, chiefly poetical, suffi- 
cient, I imagine, to make a large octavo vol- 
ume. In particular, two complete and regular 
tragedies, a farce of three acts and some smal- 
ler poems on different subjects. It falls to my 
share, who have lived in the most intimate and 
uninterrupted friendship with him from my 
youth upwards, to transmit to you the verses he 
wrote on the publication of your incomparable 
poems. It is probable they were his last, as 
they were found in his scrutoire, folded up with 
the form of a letter addressed to you, and, I im- 
agine were only prevented from being sent by 
himself, by that melancholy dispensation which 
we still bemoan. The verses themselves I will 
not pretend to criticise when writing to a gen- 
tleman whom I consider as entirely qualified to 
judge of their merit. They are the only verses 
he seems to have attempted in the Scottish 
style ; and I hesitate not to say, in general, that 
ihey will bring no dishonor on the Scottish muse; 
— and allow me to add, that, if it is your opin- 
ion they are not unworthy of the author, and 
will be no discredit to you, it is the inclination 
of Mr. Mylne's friends that they should be 
immediately published in some periodical work 
to give the world a specimen of what may be 
expected from his performances in the poetic 
line, which, perhaps, will be afterwards pub- 
lished for the advantage of his family. 



I must beg the favor of a letter from you, ac- 
knowledging the receipt of this; and to be allow- 
ed to subscribe myself with great regard, 
Sir, your most obedient servant, 
P. CARFRAE. 



No. LXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 4th March, 1789. 

Here am T, my honored friend, returned safe 
from the capital. To a man who has a home, 
however humble or remote — if that home is like 
mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle 
of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sicken- 
ing disgust. 

"Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you." 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the 
rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 
should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to 
exclaim — " What merits has he had, or what 
demerit have I had, in some state of pre-exis- 
tence, that he is ushered into this state of being 
with the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches 
in his puny fist, and I am kicked into the world 
the sport of folly, or the victim of pride ?" I 
have read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I 
think it was,) who was so much out of humor 
with the Ptolemean system of astronomy, that 
he said, had he been of the Creator's council, 
he could have saved him a great deal of labor 
and absurdity. I will not defend this blasphe- 
mous speech ; but often, as I have glided with 
humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's 
street, it has suggested itself to me, as an im- 
provement on the present human figure, that a 
man, in proportion to his own conceit of his con- 
sequence in the world, could have pushed out 
the longitude of his common size, as a snail 
pushes out his horns, or as we draw out a per- 
spective. This trifling alteration, not to men- 
tion the prodigious saving it would be in the 
tear and wear of the neck and limb-sinews of 
many of his majesty's liege subjects, in the way 
of tossing the head and tiptoe-strutting, would 
evidently turn out a vast advantage, in enabling 
us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making 
a bow, or making way to a great man, and that 
too within a second of the precise spherical an- 
gle of reverence, or an inch of the particular 
point of respectful distance, which the impor- 
tant creature itself requires ; as a measuring- 
glance at its lowering altitude would determine 
the affair like instinct. 

You are right. Madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Besides, 
my success has encouraged such a shoal of ill- 
spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, 
under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very 
term Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. 
When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him 
rather to try one of his deceased friend's English 
pieces. I am prodigiously hurried with my 
own matters, else I would have requested a pe- 
rusal of all Mylne's poetic performances ; and 
would have offered his friends my assistance in 
either selecting or correcting what would be 
proper for the press. What it is that occupies 
me so much, and perhaps a little oppresses my 
present spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some 
future letter. In the mean time, allow me to 
close this epistle with a few lines done by a 
friend of mine * * * *. I give you them, that, 
as you have seen the original, you may guess 



LETTERS. 



255 



whether one or two alterations T have ventured 
to make in them, be any real improvement. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, evm from applause. 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream. 
And all you are. my charming ♦ * * *, seem, 
Straight as the fox-glovf, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maideii-iilushing hawtliorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express. 
That all shall long to know the worth they guess ; 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even sick'ning envy must approve.* 



No. LXIX. 

TO THE REV. P. OARFRAE. 

1769. 
Reverend Sir, — 

I do not recollect that I have ever felt a se- 
verer pang of shame, than on looking at the 
date of your obliging letter which accompanied 
Mr. Mylne's poem. 

* # * # 

I am much to blame ; the honor Mr. Mylne has 
done me, greatly enhanced in its value by the 
endearing though melancholy circumstance of 
its being the last production of his muse, de- 
served a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid that, 
in the present case, it would be an improper 
step. My success, perhaps as much accidental 
as merited, has brought an inundation of non- 
sense under the name of Scottish poetry. Sub- 
scription bills for Scottish poems have so dun- 
ned, and daily do dun, the public, that the very 
name is in danger of contempt. For these rea- 
sons, if publishing any of Mr. Mylne's poems 
in a magazine, &-c. be at all prudent, in my 
opinion, it certainly should not be a Scottish 
poem. The profits of the labors of a man of 
genius are, I hope, as honorable as any profits 
whatever ; and Mr, Mylne's relations are most 
justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate 
has denied himself to reap. But let the friends of 
Mr. Mylne's fame (among whom I crave the hon- 
or of ranking myself )always keep in eye his re- 
spectability as a man and as a poet, and take no 
measure that, before the world knows any 
thing about him, would risk his name and char- 
acter being classed with the fools of the times. 

I have, Sir, some experience of publishing, 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr. Mylne's poems is this: I would publish in 
two or three English and Scottish public papers, 
any one of his English poems which should, by 
private judges, be thought the most excellent, 
and mention it, at the same time, as one of the 
productions of a Lothian farmer, of respectable 
character, lately deceased, whose poems his 
friends had it in idea to publish soon, by sub- 
scription, for the sake of his numerous family : 
—not in pity to that family, but in justice to 
what his friends think the poetic merits of the 
deceased ; and to secure, in the most effectual 
manner, to those tender connections, whose 
right it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits. 
♦These beautiful lines, we have reason to believe 
are the production of the lady to whom this letter is 
addressed.— E. 



No. LXX. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

ElUsland, 23d March, 1789. 
Sir,— 

The gentleman who will deliver you this is a 
Mr. Nielson,a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
borhood, and a very particular acquaintance of 
mine. As I have troubled him with this pack- 
et, I must turn him over to your goodness, to 
recompense him for it in a way in which he 
much needs your assistance, and where you can 
eftectually serve him: — Mr. Nielson is on his 
way for France, — to wait on his Grace of 
Queensberry, on some little business of a good 
deal of importance to him, and he wishes for 
your instructions respecting the most eligible 
mode of traveling, &lc. for him, when he has 
crossed the channel. I should not have dared 
to take this liberty with you, but that I am 
told, by those who have the honor of your per- 
sonal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest 
Scotchman, is a letter of recommendation to 
you, and that to have it in your power to serve 
such a character gives you much pleasure. 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the mem- 
ory of the late Mrs. ■*****, of ********^ You, 
probably, knew her personally, an honor of 
which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early 
years in her neighborhood, and among her ser- 
vants and tenants, I know that she was detest- 
ed with the most heartfelt cordiality. Howev- 
er, in the particular part of her conduct which 
roused ray poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to 
Ayrshire, I had put up at Balie Whigharn's in 
Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. 
The frost was keen, and the grim evening and 
howling wind were ushering in a night of snow 
and drift. My horse and I were both much fa- 
tigued with the labors of the day ; and just as 
my friend the Balie and I were bidding defiance 
to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels 
the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. *** 
***, and poor I am forced to brave all the hor- 
rors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
horse, my young favorite horse, whom I had 
just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther 
on, through the wildest moors and liills of Ayr- 
shire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The 
powers of poesy and prose sink under me, 
when I would describe what I felt. Suffice it 
to say, that when a good fire at New Cumnock, 
had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat 
down and wrote the enclosed ode.* 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally 
with Mr. Creech; and I must own, that, at 
last, he has been amicable and lair with me. 



No. LXXT. 
TO MR. HILL. 

Ellislaiid, 2d April, 1789. 
I will make no excuses, my dear Bibliopolus 
(God forgive me for murdering language,) that 
I have sat down to write you on this vile paper. 

* * * * 

It is economy. Sir; it is that cardinal virtue, 
*The Ode enclosed is that printed in Poems, p. 46. E. 



256 



LETTERS 



prudence; so I beg you will sit down, and 
either compose or borrow a panegyric. If you 
are going to borrow, app]y to 



to compose, or rather to compound something 
very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that 1 
write to one of my most esteemed friends on 
this wretched paper, which was originally in- 
tended for the venal fist of some drunken ex- 
ciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault 
of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty 
greens — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old 
housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with 
thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose I — lead 
me, hand me, in thy clutching, palsied fist, up 
those heights, and through those thickets, hith- 
erto inaccessible, and impervious to my anx- 
ious, weary feet ; — not those Parnassian crags, 
bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers 
of fame are breathless, clambering, hanging 
between heaven and hell ; but those glittering 
cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all- 
powerful deity, Wealth, holds his immediate 
court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny 
exposure of plenty, and the hot walls of profu- 
sion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, exo- 
tics in this world, and natives of Paradise ! — 
Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, 
usher me into the refulgent, adored presence ! — 
The power, splendid and potent as he now is, 
was once the puling nursling of thy faithful 
care and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy 
cousin, thy kinsman or favorite, and abjure the 
god, by the scenes of his infant years, no longer 
to repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but to 
favor me with his peculiar countenance and pro- 
tection ! He daily bestows his greatest kindness- 
es on the undeserving and the worthless — assure 
him that I bring ample documents of meritori- 
ous demerits I Pledge yourself for me, that for 
the glorious cause of Lucre I will do anything 
— be anything — but the horse-leech of private 
oppression or the vulture of public robbery ! 



But to descend from heroics, 



I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an En- 

flish Dictionary — Johnson's I suppose is best, 
n these and all my prose commissions, the 
cheapest is always the best for me. There is a 
small debt of honor that I owe Mr. Robert 
Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend 
and your well-wisher. Please give him, and 
urge him to take it, the first time you see hini, 
ten shillings worth of any thing you have to sell 
and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you 
is already begun, under the direction of Captain 
Riddel. There is another in emulation of it go- 
ing on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. 
Monteithof Closeburn, which will be on a great- 
er scale than ours. Capt. R. gave his infant 
society a great many of his old books, else I had 
written you on that subject ; but one of these 
days I shall trouble you with a communication 
for " The Monkland Friendly Society ;" — a 



copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and Lounger ; 
Man of Feeling, Man of the World, Guth' 
rie''s Geographical Grammar, with some reli- 
gious pieces, will likewise be our first order. 

When I grow richer I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present every guinea has a five guinea errand 
with, 

My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend. 

R. B. 



No. LXXII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, ith April, 1789. 

I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, 
but I wish to send it to you : and if knowing 
and reading these give half the pleasure to you, 
that communicating them to you gives to me, I 
am satisfied. 

« « * * 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at 
present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the Right 
Hon. C. J. Fox: but how long that fancy may 
hold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines I 
have just rough sketched, as follows.* 



On the 20th current I hope to have the honor 
of assuring you, in person, how sincerely I am 



No. Lxxni. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, ith May, 1789. 
My Dear Sir, — 

Your duty-free favor of the 26th April I re. 
ceivcd two days ago ; I will not say I perused 
it with pleasure : that is the cold compliment 
of ceremony ; I perused it. Sir, with delicious 
satisfaction — in short, it is such a letter, that not 
you nor your friend, but the legislature, by ex- 
press provisoin their postage- laws, should frank. 
A letter informed with the soul of friendship is 
such an honor to human nature that they should 
order it free ingress and egress to and from their 
bags and mails, as an encouragement and mark 
of distinction to supereminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately as I was out pretty early in 
the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard the 
burst of a shot from a neighboring plantation, 
and presently a poor little wounded hare came 
crippling by me. You will guess my indigna- 
tion at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a 
hare at this season, when they all of them have 
young ones. Indeed there is something in that 
business of destroying, for our sport, individu- 
als in the animal creation that do not injure us 
materially, which I could never reconcile to my 
ideas of virtue. 

* Hers was copied the Fragment inscribed to C. J. 
Fox. See Poems p. 60. 



LETTERS. 



257 



On seeing a Fellow wound a Hare with a Shot, 
April, 1789. 

Inhuman man I curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye: 
May never pity sooth thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad ihy cruel heart 1 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No nmre the thickening 1 rakes or verdant plains 

To thee a liotiie, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form, 
That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed, 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom warm. 

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its wo : 
The playful pair crowd Ibndly by thy side; 
Ah! helpie^*s nurslings, who will now provide 

That life a mother only can bestow. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruthless wretch and mourn thy hap- 
less fate. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am 
doubtful whether it would not be an improve- 
ment to keep out the last stanza but one alto- 
gether. 

C is a glorious production of the Author 

of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of the 
C F are to me 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my breast." 

1 have a good mind to make verses on you all, 
to the tune of " Three guid fellows ayont the 
glen:' 



No. LXXIV. 



The poem in the preceding letter had also beensent 
by our Bard to Ur. Gregory, for his criticism. The 
following IS that gentleman's reply. 

FROM DR. GREGORY. 

Edinburgh, 2d June, 1787. 

Dear Sif, — 

I take the first leisure hour I could command, 
to thank you for your letter, and the copy of 
verses enclosed in it. As there is real poetic 
merit, I mean both fancy and tenderness, and 
some happy expressions in them, I think they 
well deserve that you should revise them care- 
fully and polish them to the utmost. This I am 
sure you can do if you please, for you have great 
command both of expression and of rhymes : 
and you may judge from the two last pieces of 
Mrs. Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, how 
much correctness and high polish enhance the 
value of such compositions. As you desire it, 
I shall, with great freedom give you my most 
rigorous criticisms on your verses. I wish you 
wuuld give me another edition of them, much 
amended, and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, 
who I am sure will have much pleasure in read- 
ing it. Pray give me likewise for myself, and 
her too. a copy (as much amended as you please) 
of the JVater Fowl on Loch Turit. 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good subject; 
but the measure or stanza you have chosen for 
it, is not a good one ; it does not/ow) well ; and 
the rhyme of the fourth line is almost lost by its 

17 



distance from the first, and the two interposed, 
close rhymes. If I were you, I would put it in- 
to a different stanza yet. 

Stanza 1. The execrations in the first two lines 
are too strong or coarse; but they may pass. 
" Murder-aiming" is a bad compound epithet, 
and not very intelligible. " Blood stained," in 
stanza iii. line 4. has the same fault : Bleeding 
bosom is infinitely better. You have accus- 
tomed yourself to such epithets and have no no- 
tion how stiff and quaint they appear to others, 
and how incongruous with poetic fancy and ten- 
der sentiments. Suppose Pope had written, 
" Why that blood-stained bosom gored," hov/ 
would you have liked it ? Form is neither a 
poetic, nor a dignified, nor a plain common 
word ; it is a mere sportsman's word ; unsuita- 
ble to pathetic or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent," 
in this sense, is a nursery word, but both may 
pass. 

Stanza 4. " Who will now provide that life 
a mother only can bestow '" will not do at all: 
it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. Do 
you mean, " provide for that life which the moth- 
er had bestowed and used to provide for ?" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, "feed- 
ing" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in the title of 
your copy of verses ; but even fellow would be 
wrong ; it is but a colloquial and vulgar word, 
unsuitable to your sentiments. " Shot" is im- 
proper too. — On seeing a perso/i (or a sportsman) 
wound a hare ; it is needless to add with what 
weapon ; but if you think otherwise, you should 
say, with a foivling piece. 

Let me see you when you come to town, and 
I will show you some more of Mrs. Hunter's 
poems.* 



No. LXXV. 



TO MR. M'AULEY, OP DUMBAR- 
TO N. 

4th June, 1789. 

Dear Sir,— 

Though I am not without my fears respect- 
ing my fate, at that grand, universal inquest of 
right and wrong, commonly called The Last 
Day, yet I trust there is one sin, which that 
arch vagabond, Satan, who I understand is to 
be king's evidence, cannot throw in niy teeth, I 
mean ingratitude. There is a certain pretty 
large quantum of kindness, for which i remain 
and from inability, I fear must still remain your 
debtor ; but though unable to repay the debt, 
I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly remem- 
ber the obligation. It gives me the sincerest 
pleasure to hear, by my old acquaintance, Mr. 
Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's lan- 

* It must be admitted, that this criticism is not more 
distinguished by its good sense than by its freedom 
from ceremony. It is impossibie not lo smile at the 
manner in which the poet may be supposed to havo 
received it. In fart ii appears, as the sailors say, to 
have thrown h:m qviteaback. In a letter wiiich he 

wrote soon alter, he .siys. " Dr G is a good man, 

but he crucifi' s me. "--And again, " I believe in iho 
iron justice of Dr (J ;"' but like the devils, " I be- 
lieve and tremble." However he profiled by these 
criticisms, as the reader will find by comparing the 
first edition of this piece with that published in p. 51 
of the Poems. 



258 



LETTERS. 



guage, " Hale and weel, and living ;" and that 
your charming family are well, and promising 
to be an amiable and respectable addition to the 
company of performers, whom the great Mana- 
ger of the drama of Man is bringing into action 
tor the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in which 
you once warmly and effectively interested 
yourself, I am here in my old way, holding my 
plough, marking the growth of my corn, or the 
health of my dairy ; and at times sauntering by 
the delightful windings of the Nith, on the mar- 
gin of which 1 have built my humble domicile, 
praying for seasonable weather, or holding an 
intrigue with the muses, the only gypsies with 
whom I have now any intercourse. As I am 
entered into the holy state of matrimony, I trust 
my face is turned completely Zion-ward ; and as 
it is a rule with all honest fellows to repeat no 
grievances, I hope that the little poetic licen- 
ses of former days will of course fall under the 
oblivious influence of some good-natured stat- 
ute of celestial proscription. In my family 
devotion, which, like a good presbyterian, I 
occasionally give to my household folks 'I am 
extremely fond of the psalm, " Let not the er- 
rors of my youth," &c. and that other, " Lo, 
children are God's heritage," &c.: in which 
last, Mrs. Burns who, by the by, has a glori- 
ous " wood-note wild" at either old song or 
psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Handel's 
Messiah. 



No. LXXVL 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 2\st June, 1789. 
Dear Madam, — 

Will you take the effusions, the miserable ef- 
fusions, of low spirits, just as they flow from 
their bitter spring ? I know not of any particu- 
lar cause for this worst of all my foes besetting 
me, but for some time my soul has been be- 
clouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil j 
imaginations and gloomy presages. 



Monday Evening. 

I have just heard * * * ♦ give a ser- 
mon. He is a man famous for his benevolence, 
and I revere him ; but from such ideas of my 
Creator, good Lord deliver me I Religion, my 
honored friend, is surely a simple business, as it 
equally concerns the ignorant and the learned, 
ithe poor and the rich. That there is an incom- 
prehensibly Great Being, to whom I owe my 
•existence, and that he must be intimately ac- 
quainted with the operations and progress of the 
internal machinery, and consequent outward de- 
iportment of this creature which he has made : 
these are, I think, self-evident propositions. 
That there is a real and eternal distinction be- 
tween virtue and vice, and consequently, that I 
Jim an accountable creature : that from the seem- 
ing nature of the human mind, as well as from 
tthe evident imperfection, nay, positive injustice 
in the administration of affairs, both in the nat- 
iiral and moral worlds, there must be a retribu- 



tive scene of existence beyond the grave — must 
I think, be allowed by every one who will give 
himself a moment's reflection. I will go far- 
ther, and affirm, that from the sublimity, excel 
lence, and purity, of his doctrine and precepts, 
unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and 
learning of many preceding ages, though toap- 
•pearance, he himself was the obscurest, and 
most illiterate of our species ; therefore Jesus 
Christ was from God. 



Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness; and whatever injures society at large 
or any individual in it, this is my measure of ini- 
quity. 

What think you. Madam, of my creed ? I 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of one whose good opinion 1 value 
almost next to the approbation of my own 
mind. 



No. LXXVII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford- Street, \Oth June, 1789. 

Dear Sir, — 

I thank you for the different communications 
you have made me of your occasional produc- 
tions in manuscript, all of which have merit, 
and some of them merit of a difl'erent kind from 
what appears in the poems you have published. 
You ought carefully to preserve all your occa- 
sional productions, to correct and improve them 
at your leisure ; and when you can select as 
many of these as will make a volume, publish 
it either at Edinburgh or London, by subscrip- 
tion; on such an occasion, it maybe in my 
power, as it is very much in my inclination, to 
be of service to you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be that, 
in your future productions, you should abandon 
the Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt the 
measure and language of modern English po- 
etry. 

The stanza which you use in imitation of 
Christ kirk on the Green, with the tiresome repe- 
tition of "that day," is fatiguing to English 
ears, and I should think not very agreeable to 
Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humor of your jFfo7y 
Fair is lost on the English ; yet, without more 
trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed 
the whole to them. 'J'he same is true of some 
of your other poems. In your Epistle to J. 

S. , the stanzas, from that beginning vvith 

this line, " This lite, eo far's as 1 understand," 
to that which ends with — "Short while it 
grieves." are easy, flowing, gaily philosophical 
and of Horatian elegance — the language is En- 
glish, with nfew Scottish words, and some of 
those so harmonious as to add to the beauty ; 
for what poet would not prefer gloaming to twi- 
light ? 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and oc- 
casionally polishing and correcting those verses, 
which the Muse dictates, you will within a year 
or two, have another volume as large as the first 



LETTERS. 



259 



ready for the press : and this without diverting 
you from every proper attention to the study 
and practice of husbandry, in which I under- 
stand you are very learned; and which I iancy 
you will choose to adhere to as a wife, while 
poetry amuses you from time to time as a mis- 
tress. The former, like a prudent wife, must 
not show ill-humor although you retain a sneak- 
ing kindness to this agreeable gypsy, and pay 
her occasional visits, which in no manner alien- 
ates your heart from your lawful spouse, but 
tends on the contrary, to promote her interest. 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech 
to send you a copy of Zeluco. This perform- 
ance has had great success here; but 1 shall be 
glad to have your opinion of it, because I value 
your opmion, and because 1 know you are above 
saying what you do not think. 

J beg you will offer my best wishes to my 
very good friend, Mrs. Hamilton, who I under- 
stand is your neighbor. If she is as happy as 1 
wish her, she is happy enough. Make my 
compliments also to Mrs. Burns : and believe 
me to be, with sincere esteem, 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXVIII. 
FROM MISS J. LITTLE. 

Loudon House, I2th July, 1789. 
Sir,— 

Though I have not the happiness of being 
personally acquainted with you, yet, amongst 
the number of those who have read and admi- 
red your publications, may I be permitted to 
trouble you with this. You must know, Sir, I 
am somewhat in love with the Muses, though I 
cannot boast of any favors they have deigned to 
confer upon me as yet : my situation in life has 
been very much against me as to that. I have 
spent some years in and about Eccelefechan 
(where my parents reside.) in the station of 
a servant, and am now come to Loudon House 

at present possessed by Mrs. H : she is 

daughter to Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, whom I 
understand you are particularly acquainted with. 
As I had the pleasure of perusing your poems, 
I felt a partiality for the author, which I should 
not have experienced had you been in a more 
dignified station. I wrote a few verses of ad- 
dress to you, which I did not then think of ever 
presenting ; but as fortune seems to have favor- 
ed mc in this, by bringing me into a family, by 
whom you are well known and much esteem- 
ed, and where perhaps I may have an opportu- 
nity of seeing you, I shall in hopes of your fu- 
ture friendship, take the liberty to transcribe 
them. 



Fair fa' the honest rustic swain, 
The pride o' a' our Scottish plain. 
Thou gie's us joy to hear thy strain. 

And notes sae sweet : 
Old Ramsay's shade revived aguin 

In thee we greet. 

Lov'd Thalia, that delightful muse, 
Sf em'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To ail she did her aid refuse, 

Since Allan's day. 
Till Burns arose, tlien did she rhuse 

To grace his lay. 



To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre ; 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does warm ; 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

CiEsar and Lu.nth weel can speak, 
Tis pity e'er their gabs should ateek. 
But ijito human nature keek, 

And knots unravel ; 
To hear their lectures once a week. 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Tliy dedication to G. H. 

An unco honnie ham^^pun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson. 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech 
Like beggar's niesson. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And woman's faithless vows you blame. 
With so much pathos you exclaim. 

In your Lament : 
But glanc'd by tiie most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 

The daisy too, ye sing wi' skill; 
And wee! ye praise the whisky gill; 
In vain I blunt my fecklessqnill, 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill. 

To Burns's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope hut hear. 

Or Sam, that critic most severe, 

A ploughboy sing with throat sae clear, 

They, in a rage. 
Their works would a' in pieces tear. 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint. 
The beauties of your verse to paint ; 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint. 
And weel may thee. 

The task I'll drop — with heart sincere 
To Heaven present my humble pray'/-, 
That all the blessings mortals share. 

May be by turns 
Dispens'd by an indulgent care. 

To Robert Burns'. 

Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in 
this ; my hand trembles while 1 write to you, 
conscious of my unworthiness of what I would 
most earnestly solicit ; viz. your favor, and 
friendship, yet hoping you will show yourself 
possessed of as much generosity and good na- 
ture as will prevent your exposi;ig what may 
justly be found liable to censure , in this meas- 
ure, I shall take the ii,be;rty to subscribe myself, 
Sir, 
Your most obedient, humble servant, 
JANET LITTLE. 

P. S. If you would condescend to honor me 
with a few lines from your hand, I would take 
it as a particular favor ; and direct to me at Lou- 
don House, near Galston. 



No. LXXIX. 
FROM MR.***** 

London, bth August, 1789. 
My Deak Sir, — 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon 
abilities which you possess must render your 
correspondence very acceptable to any one. I 



260 



LETTERS. 



can assure you I am particularly proud of your 
partiality, and shall endeavor, by every method 
in my power, to merit a continuance of your po- 
liteness. 

* * # * 

When you can spare a few moments I should 
be proud of a letter from you, directed for me, 
Gerard-street, Soho. 



I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at 
the instance of your attachment to my late in- 
estimable friend, Bob Fergusson,* who was 
particularly intimate with myself and relations. 
While 1 recollect with pleasure his extraordi- 
nary talents, and many amiable qualities, it af- 
fords me the greatest consolation that I am hon- 
ored with the correspondence of his successor 
in national simplicity and genius. That Mr. 
Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must 
readily be admitted ; but notwithstanding many 
favorable representations, I am yet to learn that 
he inherits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
such a plenitude of fancy and attraction in him 
that when I call the happy period of our inter- 
course to my memory, I feel myself in a state 
of delirium. I was then younger than him by 
eight or ten years, but his manner was so felici- 
tous, that he enraptured every person around 
him, and infused into the hearts of the young and 
the old the spirit and animation which operated 
on his own mind. 

I am, Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXX. 

TO MR. ***** 
In answer to the foregoing. 
My Dear Sir, — 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular sea- 
son, and the indolence of a poet at all times and 
seasons, will I hope, plead my excuse for neg- 
lecting so long to answer your obliging letter of 
the 5th of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your la- 
borious concern in **** I do not doubt : the 
weighty reasons you mention were, I hope very 
deservedly, indeed, weighty ones, and your 
health is a matter of the last importance : but 
whether the remaining proprietors of the paper 
have also done well, is what I much doubt. The 
****, so far as I was a reader, exhibited such 
a brilliancy of point, such an elegance of para- 
graph, and such a variety of intelligence, that I 
can hardly conceive it possible to continue a 
daily paper in the same degree of excellence ; 
but, if there was a man who had abilities equal 
to the task, that man's assistance the proprie- 
tors have lost. 



When 1 received your letter, I was transcri- 
bing for ****, rny letter to the magistrates of 
the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their per- 
mission to place a tomb-stone over poor Fer- 
gusson, and their edict, in consequence of my 
petition, but now I shall send them to * * * 

Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond 
the grave, which I trust there is ; and if there 

• The erection of a monument to him. 



be a good God presiding over all nature, which 
I am sure there is, thou art now enjoying exist- 
ence in a glorious world, where worth of the 
heart alone is distinction in the man ; where 
riches, deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing 
powers, return to their native sordid matter : 
where titles and honor are the disregarded rev- 
eries of an idle dream ; and where that heavy 
virtue, which is the negative consequence of 
steady dulness, and those thoughtless, though 
often destructive follies, which are the unavoid- 
able aberrations of frail human nature, will be 
thrown into equal oblivion as if they had never 
been. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as your pres- 
ent views and schemes are concentred in an 
aim, I shall be glad to hear from you ; as your 
welfare and happiness is by no means a subject 
indifferent to 

Yours, &c. 



No. LXXXI. 



TO MISS WILLIAMS. 



1789. 



Madam, — 

Of the many problems in the nature of that 
wonderful creature, Man, this is one of the most 
extraordinary, that he shall go on from day to 
day, from week to week, from month to month, 
or perhaps from year to year, suffering a hun- 
dred times more in an hour from the impotent 
consciousness of neglecting what he ought to 
do, than the very doing of it would cost him. 
I am deeply indebted to you, first for a most 
elegant poetic compliment ;* then for a polite 
obliging letter ; and lastly, for your excellent 
poem on the Slave-trade ; and yet, wretch that 
I am ! though the debts were debts of honor, 
and the creditor a lady, I have put off, and put 
ofT, even the very acknowledgment of the obli- 
gation, until you must indeed be the very angel 
1 take you for, if you can forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highest plea- 
sure. I have a way, whenever 1 read a book, 
I mean a book in our own trade. Madam, a po- 
etic one, and when it is my own property, that 
I take a pencil and mark at the ends of verses, 
or note on margins and odd paper, little criti. 
cisms of approbation or disapprobation as I per- 
use along. I will make no apology for presenting 
you with a few unconnected thoughts that oc- 
curred to me in my repeated perusals of your 
poem. I want to show you that I have honesty 
enough to tell you what I take to be truths, 
even when they are not quite on the side of ap- 
probation ; and I do it in the firm faith, that 
you have equal greatness of mind to hear them 
with pleasure. 

I had lately the honor of a letter from Dr. 
Moore, where he tells me that he has sent me 
some books. They are not yet come to hand, 
but I hear they are on the way. 

Wishing you all success in your progress in 
the path of fame ; and that you may equally 
escape the danger of stumbhng through incau- 
tious speed, or losing ground through loitering 
neglect, 

I have the honor to be, &.c. 

* See Miss Smith's Sonnet, page 75.— note. 



LETTERS 



2G1 



No. LXXXTI. 
FROM MISS WILLIAMS. 

1th August, 1789. 
Dear Sif, — 

I do not lose a moment in returning you my 
sincere acknowledgments for your letter, and 
your criticism on my poem, which is a very 
flattering proof that you have read it wiih atten- 
tion. I think your objeciions are perfectly just, 
except in one instance, 



You have indeed been very profuse of pane- 
gyric on my little performance. A much less 
portion of applause from you would have been 
gratifying to me ; since I think its value de- 
pends entirely upon the source from whence it 
proceeds — the incense of praise, like other in- 
cense, is more grateful from the quality than 
the quantity of the odor. 

I hope you still cultivate the pleasures of po- 
etry, which are precious, even independent of 
the rewards of fame. Perhaps the most valua- 
ble property of poetry is its power of disenga- 
ging the mind from worldly cares, and leading 
the imagination to the richest springs of intel- 
lectual enjoyment ; since, however frequently 
life may be chequered with gloomy scenes, those 
who truly love the Muse can always find one 
little path adorned with flowers and cheered by 
eunshine. 



No. LXXXIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, 6th Sept. 1789. 
Dear Madam, — 

I have mentioned, in my last, my appoint- 
ment to the Excise, and the birth of little 
Frank, who, by the by, I trust will be no dis- 
credit to the honorable name of Wallace, as he 
has a fine manly countenance, and a figure that 
might do credit to a little fellow two months 
older ; and likewise an excellent good temper, 
though, when he pleases, he has a pipe, only 
not quite so loud as the horn that his immortal 
namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin 
of Stirhng bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. 
Little, a very ingenious but modest composition. 
I should have written her, as she requested, but 
for the hurry of this new business. I have 
heard of her and her compositions in this coun- 
try ; and I am happy to add, always to the hon- 
or of her character, The fact is, I know not 
well how to write to her : I should sit down to 
a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain. 
I am no dab at fine-drawn letter- writing; and 
except when prompted by friendship or grati- 
tude, or, which happens extremely rarely, in- 
spired by the Muse (I know not her name) that 
presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, 
when necessitated to write, as I would sit down 
to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20lh August 
struck me with the most melancholy concern 
for the state of your mind at present. 



Would 1 could write you a letter of comfort ! 
I would sit down to it with as much pleasure as 
I would to write an Epic poem of my own com- 
position that should equal the Jliad. Religion, 
my dear friend, is the true comfort. A strong 
persuasion in a future state of existence ; a prop- 
osition so obviously probable, that, setting rev- 
elation aside, every nation and people, so far as 
investigation has reached, for at least near four 
thousand years, have in some mode or other 
firmly believed it. In vain would we reason 
and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so 
to a very daring pitch : but when I reflected 
that I was opposing the most ardent wishes, and 
the most darling hopes of good men, and flying 
in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I 
was shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the 
following lines, or if you have ever seen them ; 
but if is one of my favorite quotations, which I 
keep constantly by me in my progress through 
life, in the language of the book of Job, 

"Against the day of battle and of war " 

spoken of religion, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 

'Tie this that gilds the horror of our night. 

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few; 

When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 

Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 

Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I have been very busy with Zeluco. The 
Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of it ; and I have been revolving in my mind 
some kind of criticisms on novel-writing, but 
it is a depth beyond my research. I shall, how- 
ever, digest my thoughts on the subject as well 
as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling perform- 
ance. 

Farewell ! Dieu, le ban Dieu, je vous com- 
meiide ! 



No. LXXXIV. 
FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edi7iburgh, 2ith August,1789. 

Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart. 
Both for thy virtues and thy art; 
If art it may be called in thee. 
Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast diffuses. 
And warms thy soul with all ihe .Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Thy numbers move the sage's face. 
Or bid the softer passion rise, 
And rutliless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis nature's voice disliiictly felt. 
Through thee, her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know, 
With thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved .lean her health) 
What promises thy farm of wealth 1 
Whether the Muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile 1 
Wliether bright fancy keeps alive 1 
And how thy darling iiifant.s thrive "i 

For me with grief and sickness spent. 
Since I my journey homeward bent. 
Spirits depress'd no more I mourn. 
But vigor, life, and health return, 



262 



LETTERS, 



No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ ! 
Happy while yet these hours remain 
If Burns could join the cheerful train, 
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble servant, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. LXXXV. 
TO DR. BLACKLOCK. See Poems, p. 61. 



No. LXXXVI. 



R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 
9tfi December, 1789. 
Sir,— 

I have a good while had a wish to trouble you 
with a letter, and had certainly done it ere now 
— but for a humiliating something that throws 
cold water on the resolution, as if one should 
say, " You have found Mr. Graham a very pow- 
erful and kind friend indeed ; and that interest 
he is so kindly taking in your concerns, you 
ought, by every thing in your power, to keep 
alive and cherish." Now though since God 
has thought proper to make one powerful and 
another helpless, the connexion of obliger and 
obhged is all fair ; and though my being under 
your patronage is to me highly honorable, yet. 
Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that as a poet 
and an honest man, you first interested yourself 
in my welfare, and principally as such still, you 
permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great 
deal smoother with me than I expected ; owing 
a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. 
Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance 
of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be 
honest, and I fearno labor. Nor do I find my 
hurried life greatly inimical to my correspond- 
ence with the Muses. Their visits to me, in- 
deed, and I believe to most of their acquaint- 
ance, like the visits of good angels, are short 
and far between ; but I meet them now and 
then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just 
as I u.sed to do on the banks of Ayr. I take 
the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all 
of them the productions of my leisure thoughts 
in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose 
the antiquarian, you will enter into any humor 
that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you 
have seen them before, as I sent them to a 
London newspaper, Though I dare say you 
have none of the solemn-league-and-covenant 
fire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord George 
Gordon and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I 
think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one 
of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. 
God help him, poor man I Though he is one of 
the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the 
whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in ev- 
ery sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor 
Doctor and his numerous family are in immi- 
nent danger of being thrown out to the mercy of 
the winter- winds. The enclosed ballad on that 
business is, I confess too local, but I laughed 



myself at some conceits in it, though I am con- 
vinced in my conscience that there are a good 
many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
to the present canvass in our siring of boroughs. 
I do not believe there will be such a hard-run 
match in the whole general election.* 



I am too little a man to have any political at- 
tachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and have 
the warmest veneration for, individuals of both 
parties ; but a man who has it in his power to 
be the father of a country, and who * * * • 
is a character that one cannot speak of with pa- 
tience. 

Sir J. J. does " what man can do ;" but yet 
I doubt his fate. 



No. LXXXVir. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, 13f7i December, 1789. 

Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheet- 
ful of rhymes. Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you every thing 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of a 
diseased nervous system ; a system, the state of 
which is most conducive to our happiness — or 
the most productive of our misery. For now 
near three weeks I have been so ill with the 
nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged to 
give up for a time my excise-books, being 
scarcely able to lift my head, much less to ride 
once a week over ten muir parishes. What is 
man ? To-day in the luxuriance of health, exult- 
ing in the enjoyment of existence ; in a few days 
or perhaps in a few hours, loaded with consci- 
ous painful being, counting the tardy pace of 
the lingering moments by the repercussions of 
anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter, day 
follows night, and night comes after day, only 
to curse him with life which gives him no 
pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark termination 
of that life is a something at which he recoils. 

" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What His you are, and we must shortly be ! 

'tis no matter : 

A little time will make us learn'd as you are." 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in 
conscious existence ! When the last gasp of ag- 
ony has announced that I am no more to those 
that knew me, and the few who loved me ; 
when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly 
corpse is resigned into the earth, to be the prey 
of unsightly reptiles, and to become in time a 
trodden clod, shall I yet be warm in life, seeing 
and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye venera- 
ble sages, and holy flamens, is there probabili- 
ty in your conjectures, truth in your stories of 
another world beyond death ; or are they all 
alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? 
If there is another life, it must be only for the 
just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the hu- 

* This alludes to the contest for the borough of 
Dumfries, between the Duke of Qneensberry's inter 
est and tlial of Sir James Johnstone. — E. 



LETTERS. 



263 



mane ; what a flattering idea, then, is the world 
to come ! Would to God I as firmly believed it, 
as I ardently wish it ! There I should meet an 
aged parent, now at rest from the many buflet- 
ings of an evil world, against which he so long 
and so bravely struggled. There should 1 meet 
the friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, because 

he loved me and could serve me. Muir, 

thy weaknesses, were the aberrations of human 
nature, but thy heart glowed with every thing 
generous, manly and noble ; and if ever eman- 
ation from the All-good Being animated a human 
form, it is thine I — There should I, witli speech- 
less agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, 
my ever dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught 
with truth, honor, constancy, and love. 



My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast 1 



Jesus Christ, thou ainiablest of characters ! 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy reve- 
lation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave, is not one of the many im- 
pot^itions which, time after time have been palm- 
ed on credulous mankind. I trust that in thee 
" shall ail the families of the earth be blessed," 
by being yet connected together in a better 
world, where every tie that bound heart to heart 
in this state of existence, shall be, far beyond 
our present conceptions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with those 
who maintain, that what are called nervous af- 
fections are in fact diseases of the mind. 1 can- 
not reason, I cannot think; and but to you I 
would not venture to write anything above an 
order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of 
the ills of life not to sympathise with a diseased 
wretch, who is impaired more than half of any 
faculties he possessed. Your goodness will ex- 
cuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer 
dare scarcely read, and which he would throw 
into the fire were he able to write anything bet- 
ter, or indeed anything at all. 

Rumor told me something of a son of yours 
who was returned from the East or West-In- 
dies. If you have gotten news of James or An- 
thony, it was cruel in you not to let me know; 
as 1 promise you on the sincerity of a man who 
is weary of one world and anxious about anoth- 
er, that scarce anything could give me so much 
pleasure as to hear of any good thing befalling 
my honored friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your 
pen in pity to lepauvre miserable, R. B. 



No. LXXXVIII. 
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

Sir,— 

The following circumstance has, I believe, 
been omitted in the statistical account transmit- 
ted to you. of the parish of Dunscore, in Niths- 
dale. 1 beg leave to send it to you. because it 
is new, and may be useful. How far it is deserv- 
ing of a place in your patriotic publication, you 
are the best judge. 



To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge is certainly of very great im- 
portance, both to them as individuals, and soci- 
ety at large. Giving them a turn for reading 
and reflection, is giving them a source of inno- 
cent and laudable amusement ; and, besides, 
raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, a 
gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. 
of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulating 
library, on a plan so simple as to be practicable 
in any corner of the country ; and so useful as 
to deserve the notice of every country gentle- 
man, who thinks the improvement of that part 
of his own species, whom chance has thrown 
into the humble walks of the peasant and the 
artisan, a matter worthy of his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and farming neighbors, to form themselves in- 
to a society for the purpose of having a library 
among themselves. They entered into a legal 
engagement to abide by it for three years ; with a 
saving clause or two, in case of a removal to a 
distance, or of death. Each member, at his en- 
try, paid five shillings ; and at each of their 
meetings, which were held every fourth Satur- 
day, sixpence more. With their entry-money, 
and the credit which they took on the faiih of 
their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock 
of books, at the commencement. What authors 
they were to purchase, was always decided by 
the majority. At every meeting, all the books, 
under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of 
penalty, were to be produced : and the mem- 
bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation. 
He whose name stood for that night first on the 
list, had his choice of what volume he pleased 
in the whole collection ; the second had his 
choice after the first ; the third after the second 
and so on to the last. At the next meeting, he 
who had been first on the list at the preceding 
meeting was last at this ; he who had been sec- 
ond was first ; and so on through the whole 
three years. At the expiration of the engage- 
ment, the books were sold by auction, but only 
among the members themselves ; and each man 
had share of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, which 
was formed under Mr. Riddel's patronage, what 
with benefactions of books from him, and what 
with their own purchases, they had collected to- 
gether upwards of one hundred and fifty vol- 
umes. It will easily be guessed, that a good 
deal of trash would be bought. Among the 
books, however, of this little library, were 
Blair's Sermoris, Eobertso7i's History of Scot- 
land, HuTne's Hislory of the Stuarts, The Spec- 
tator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, 
Observer, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
Chrysal, Don Quixotte, Joseph A?idrews, &,c. 
A peasant who can read and enjoy such books, 
is certainly a much superior being to his neigh- 
bor, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very 
little removed, except in shape, from the brutes 
he drives.* 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 
much merited success, 

I am, Sir, your humble servant, 

A FEASANT 

* See the note on the next page. 



264 



LETTERS. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO CHARLES SHARPS 
HODD AM. 



ESQ. OF 



Under a fictitious Signature, enclosing a 
ballad, 1790, or 1791. 

It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank 
and fortune, and 1 am a poor devil ; you are a 
feather in the cap of society, and I am a very 
hobnail in his shoes: yet 1 have the honor to 
belong to the same family with you, and on that 
score I now address you. You will perhaps 
suspect that I am going to claim affinity with 
the ancient and honorable house of Kilpatrick : 
No, no. Sir : I cannot indeed be properly said 
to belong to any house or even any province or 
kingdom, as my mother, who for many years 
was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me 
into this bad world, aboard the packet boat, 
somewhere between Donaghadee and Portpat- 
rick. By our common family, I mean. Sir, the 
family of the Muses. I am a fiddler and a poet ; 
and you, I am told, play an exquisite violin, 
and have a standard taste in the Belles Lettres. 
The other day a brother catgut gave me a charm- 
ing Scots air of your composition. If I was 
pleased with the tune, I was in raptures with the 
title you have given it ; and, taking up the idea 
I have spun it into three stanzas enclosed. Will 
you allow me. Sir, to present you them, as the 
dearest offering that a misbegotten son of pov- 
erty and rhyme has to give ; I have a longing 
to take you by the hand and unburden my heart 
by saying — '• Sir, ] honor you as a man who 
supports the dignity of human nature, amid an 
age when frivolity and avarice have, between 
them debased us below the brutes that perish !" 
But, alas, Sir ! to me you are unapproachable. 
It is true, the Muses baptized me in Castalian 
streams, but the thoughtless gypsies forgot to 
give me a Name. As the sex have served many 
a good fellow, the Nine have given me a great 
deal of pleasure, but, bewitching jades! they 
have beggared me. Would they but spare me 
a little of their cast linen ! were it only to put it 
in my power to say that I have a shirt on my backl 
But the idle wenches, like Solomon's lilies, 
" they toil not, neither do they spin;" So I must 
e'en continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like 
the hangman's rope, round my naked throat, 
and coax my galligaskins to keep together their 

*This letter is extracted from the third volume of 
Sir Jolin Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598. — it was enclos- 
ed to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himself, in the follow- 
ing letter, also printed there. 

" Sir John, I enclose you a letter, written by Mr. 
Burns, as an addition to the account of Dunscore par- 
ish, li contains an account of a small lilirary wliich 
he was so good (at my desire) as to set on foot, in 
the barony of Monkland, or Friar's Carse, in this 
parish. As its utility htJS been felt, particularly among 
the younger class of people. I think, that if a similar 
plan were establislied in the different parishes of 
Scotland, it would tend greatly to the speedy im- 
provemetit of the tenantry, trades-people, and work 
people. Mr. Burns was so good as to take the whole 
charge of this small concern. He was treasurer, li- 
brarian, and censor, to this little society, who will 
long have a grateful sense of his public spirit and 
exurtions for their improvement and information. 
I have the honor to be. Sir John, 

Yours, most s ncerely. 

BOBERT RIDDEL. 

To Sir John Sinclair of Ulster, Bart, 



many-colored fragments. As to the affair of 
shoes, I have given that up. — My pilgrimages in 
my ballad-trade from town to town, and on your 
stony-hearted turnpikes too, are what not even 
the hide of Job's Behemoth could bear. The 
coat on my back is no more : I shall not speak 
evil of the dead. It would be equally unhand- 
some and ungrateful to find fault wuth my old 
surtout, which so kindly supplies and conceals 
the want of that coat. My hat indeed is a great 
favorite ; and though I got it literally for an old 
song, I would not exchange it for the best bea- 
ver in Britain. I was, during several years, a 
kind of factotem servant to a country clergyman 
where I picked up a good many scraps of learn- 
ing, particularly in some branches of the math- 
ematics. Whenever I feel inclined to rest my- 
self on my way, I take my seat under a hedge, 
laying my poetic wallet on my one side, and 
my fiddle case on the other, and placing my hat 
between my legs, I can by means of its brim 
or rather brims, go through the whole doctrine 
of the Conic Sections. 

However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as 
if I would interest your pity. Fortune has so 
much forsaken me, that she has taught me to 
live without her ; and amid all my rags and 
poverty, I am as independent, and much more 
happy than a monarch of the world. According 
to the hackneyed metaphor, I value the several 
actors in the great drama of life, simply as they 
act their parts. I can look on a worthless 
fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt ; 
and can regard an honest scavenger with sincere 
respect. As you, Sir, go through your roll with 
such distinguished merit, permit me to make 
one in the chorus of universal applause, and as 
sure you that, with the highest respect, 

1 have the honor to be, &c. 



No. XC. 



TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellisland, llth January, 1790. 
Dear Brother, — 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not, in my present frame of mind, much 
appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves are 
in a **** state. I feel that horrid hypocondria 
pervading every atom of both body and soul. 
This farm has undone my enjoyment of myself. 
It is a ruinous affair on all hands. But let it go 
to**** ! I'll fight it out and be off with it- 

We have gotten a set of very decent players 
here just now. I have seen them an evening 
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me 
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- 
land, who is a man of apparent worth. On 
New-Year-day evening I gave him the follow- 
ing prologue,* which he spouted to his audience 
with applause — 

I can no more: — If once I was clear of this * 
*** farm, I should respire more at ease. 



No. XCI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 25th January, 1790. 
It has been owing to unremitting hurry of bu 
* This prologue is printed in the Poems p. 61. 



LETTERS 



265 



siness that I have not written to you, Madam, 
long ere now. My health is greatly better, 
and 1 now begin once more to share in satisfac- 
tion and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow- 
creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but why will you make me 
run the risk of being contemptible and merce- 
nary in rny own eyes ! When I pique myself 
on my independent spirit, J hope it is neither 
poetic license, nor poetic rant ; and I am so 
flattered with the honor you have done me, in 
making me your compeer in friendship and 
friendly correspondence, that I cannot without 
pain, and a degree of mortification, be remind- 
ed of the real inequality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his faie, but my own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted manly 
young fellow, in the little 1 had of his acquaint- 
ance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Ship- 
wreck, which you so much admire, is no more. 
After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he so 
feelingly describes in his poem, and after weath- 
ering many hard gales of fortune, he went to 
the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! I forget 
what part of Scotland had the honor of giving 
him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and 
misfortune.* He was one of those daring, ad- 
venturous spirits which Scotland, beyond any 
other country, is remarkable for producing. 
Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs 
delighted over the sweet little leech at her bo- 
som, where the poor fellow may hereafter wan- 
der, and what may be his fate. I remember a 
stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which notwith- 
standing its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to 
the heart : 

"Little did my mother think, 

That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to iravel in. 

Or what death I should die." 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favorite 
study and pursuit of mine; and now I am on 
that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas 
of another old simple ballad, which I am sure 
will please you. The catastrophe of the piece 

* Falconer was in early life a sea bny, to use a 
word of Shakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in 
which capacity he attracted the notice of Campbell, 
the author of the satire on Ur. Johnson, entitled 
Lcxipharies, then purser of the sliip. Campbell took 
him as his servant, and delighted in giving him in- 
B'ruction ; and when Falconer afterwards acquired 
celebrity, boasted of him as his scholar. The Editor 
had this information from a surgeon of a tnan-of- 
war, in 1777. who knew both Campbell and Falconer, 
and who himself per shed soon after by shipwreck 
on the coast of America. 

Though th<' death of Falconer happened so lately 
as 1770 or 1771. yet in the biography prefixt d by Dr. 
Anderson to his works, in the com|.lete edition ofthe 
Poets of Great Briinin. il is said — 'Ofthe family, 
birthplace, and education of William Falconer, there 
are no memorials." On the authorUy already given, 
it may be mentioned, that he was a native of one of 
the towns on the coast of Fife : and that his parents 
who had siitTered some misfortunes, removed to one 
of the sea-ports of England, where they both died 
soon after, of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Fal- 
coner, then a boy. forlorn and destitute. In conse- 
quence of which he entered on board a man-of-war. 
These last circumstances are, however, less certain. 
-E 



] is a poor ruined female lamenting her fate. She 
concludes with this pathetic wish : 

"O that my father had ne'er on mc smil'd ; 

O that my moihrr had ne'er to me sung! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 

But that I had died when I was young I 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my windinfi sheet : 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; 

And O sae sound as I should sleep:" 

I do not remember in all my reading to have 
met with any thing more truly the language of 
misery than the exclamation in the last line. 
Misery is like love ; to speak its language truly, 
the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give 
your little godson* the small pox. They are 
i rife in the country, and 1 tremble for his fate. 
j By the way, I cannot help congratulating you 
] on his looks and spirit. Every person who sees 
him acknowledges him to be the finest, hand- 
I somest child he has ever seen. 1 am myself 
j delighted with the manly swell of his Uttle 
! chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the car- 
riage of his head, and the glance of his fine 
black eye, which promise the undaunted gal- 
lantry of an independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but 
time forbids. I promise you poetry until you 
are tired of it, next time I have the honor of as- 
suring you how truly I am, &c. 



No. XCIL 



FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

28th January, 1790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardona- 
ble to quote any one's own words ; but the 
value I have for your friendship, nothing can 
more truly or more elegantly express than 

"Time b\it the impression stronger makes. 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twice without having 
heard from you, I am apt to thii»k my letters 
have miscarried. My conjecture is only framed 
upon the chapter of accidents turning up against 
me, as it too often does, in the trivial, and, I 
may with truth add, the more important affairs 
of life; but I shall continue occasionally to in- 
form you what is going on among the circle of 
your friends in these parts. In these days of 
merriment, I have frequently heard your name 
proclaimed at the jovial board — under the roof 
of our hospitable friend at Stenhouse-mills ; 
there were no 

" Lingering moments numbered with care.'* 

I saw your Address to the New Year in the 
Dumfries Journal. Of your productions I shall 
say nothing ; but my acquaintance allege that 
when your name is mentioned, which every 
man of celebrity must know often happens, I 
am the champion, the Mendoza, against all 
snarling critics and narrow minded reptiles, of 
whom a few on this planet do crawl. 

With best compliments to your wife, and her 
black-eyed sister, I remain 

Yours, &,c. 

* The bard's second son, Francis.— E. 



266 



LETTERS. 



No. XCIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 13th February, 1790. 

I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued 
friend, for writing to you on tiiis very unfash- 
ionable, unsightly sheet — 

*' My poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post I 
have none, except one poor widowed half-sheet 
of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my 
plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow of a 
man of fashion, whom that unpolite scoundrel, 
Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine- 
apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
bearing help-mate of a village priest ; or a glass 
of whisky-todd'y, with the ruby-nosed yoke-fel- 
low of a foot-padding exciseman — 1 make a 
vow to enclose this sheet-full of epistolary frag- 
ments in that my only scrap of gilt paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to you 
long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will 
not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more dear 
to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke 
of ********* to the powers of***** than my 
friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I can- 
not write to you ; should you doubt it, take the 
following fragment which was intended for you 
some time ago, and be convinced that I can att- 
tithesize sentiment, and circumvolute periods, 
as well as any coiner of phrase in the regions 
of philology. 

December, 1789. 
My Dear Cunningham, 

Where are you ? and what are you doing ? 
Can you be that son of levity who takes up a 
friendship as he takes up a fashion ; or are you, 
like some other of the worthiest fellows in the 
world, the victim of indolence, laden with fet- 
ters of ever-increasing weight ? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have 
a portion of conscious existence, equally capa- 
ble of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rap- 
ture, or of suffering pain, wretchedness, and 
misery, it is surely worthy of an inquiry whether 
there be not such a thing as a science of life, 
whether method, economy, and fertility of ex- 
pedients, be not applicable to enjoyment ; and 
whether there be not a want of dexterity in 
pleasure, which renders our little scantling of 
happiness still less ; and a profuseness and in- 
toxication in bliss, which leads to satiety, dis- 
gust, and self-abhorrence. There is not a doubt 
but that health, talents, character, decent coin- 
petency, respectable friends, are real subs an- 
tial blessings ; and yet do we not daily see those 
who enjoy many or all of these good things, 
contrive, notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as 
others to whose lot few of them have fallen ? I 
believe one great source of this mistake or mis- 
conduct is owing to a certain stimulus, with us 
called ambition, which goads us up the hill of 
life, not as we ascend other eminences, for the 
laudable curiosity of viewing an extended land- 
scape, but rather for the dishonest pride of look- 



ing down on others of our fellow-creatures, 
seemingly diminutive in humbler stations, &,c. 

&.C. 



Sunday, lith February, 1780. 
God help me I I am now obliged to join 
" Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 
these churches, I am ***** past redemption, 
and what is worse,***** to all eternity. I am 
deeply read in Boston s Fourfold State, Mar- 
shal on Sanctificat ion, Guthrie's Trial of a Sav- 
ing Interest, &c : but " there is no balm in 
Gilcad, there is no physician there," for me; 
so I shall e'en turn Arminian, and trust to "sin- 
cere, though imperfect obedience." 



Tuesday, I6th. 

Luckily for me I was prevented from the 
discussion of the knotty point at which I had just 
made a full slop. All my fears and cares are of 
this world : if there is another, an honest man 
has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man that 
wishes to be a Deist ; but, I fear every fair un- 
prejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a 
Sceptic. It is not that there are any very stag- 
gering arguments against the immortality of 
man ; but like electricity, phlogiston, &c. the 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data logo upon. One thing frightens me much : 
that we are to live forever, seems too good 
news to he true. That we are to enter into a 
new scene of existence, where exempt from want 
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our 
friends without satiety or separation — how much 
should I be indebted to any one who could fully 
assure me that this was certain. 



My time is once more expired. I will write 
to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and ail 
his concerns. And may all the powers that pre- 
side over conviviality and friendship, be present 
with all their kindest influence, when the bear- 
er of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish I 

could also make one. — I think we should be * 

* * * 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
things are kind, think on these things, and think 
on 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. XCIV. 

TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 
At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly 
Society, it was resolved to augment their libra- 
ry by the following books, which you were to 
send us as soon as possible : — The Mirror, The 
Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
(these for my own sake, i wish to have by the 
first carrier,} Knox'i History of the Eeforma- 



LETTERS, 



267 



tion ; Eaes History of the Rebellion in 1715 ; 
any good History of the Kehellion in 1745 ; a 
Display of the Secession Act arid Testimony, 
by Mr. Gibb ; Hervey's Meditations ; Bever- 
idge's Thoughts ; and another copy of Watson''* 
Body of Divinity. 

1 wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four 
months ago to pay some money he owed me m- 
to your hands, and lately 1 wrote to you to the 
same purpose, but J have heard from neither 
one nor the other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in 
my last, I want very much An Index to the 
Excise Laws or an Abridgment of all the Stat- 
utes now in force relative to the Excise, by Jel- 
lenger Symons ; I want three copies of this 
book ; if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get 
it for me. An honest country neighbor of mine 
wants, too, A Family Bible, the larger the bet- 
ter, but second-handed, for he does not choose 
to give above ten shillings for the book. I want 
likewise for myself as you can pick them up, 
second- handed or cheap, copies oi Otway's 
Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson''s, Dryden's, Con- 
greve^s, Wycherley^s, Vanburgh' s, Cibber^s, or 
any Dramatic Works of the more modern, 
Mackli?i, Garrick, Foote, Coleman, or Sheri- 
dan. A good copy too, of Moliere, in French, 
I much want. Any other good dramatic au- 
thors in that language I want also, but comic 
authors chiefly, though I should wish to have 
Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. I am in 
no hurry for all, or any of these ; but if you ac- 
cidentally meet with them very cheap, get them 
lor me. 

And now to quit the dry walk of business, how 
do you do, my dear friend, ? and how is Mrs. 
Hill? I trust, if now and then not so elegantly 
handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as 
divinely as ever. My good wife, too, has a 
charming " wood-note wild ;" now could we 
four 

* * * # 

I am out of all patience with this vile world 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature benevo- 
lent creatures. Except in a few scoundrelly in- 
stances, I do not think that avarice of the good 
things we chance to have, is born with us ; but 
we are placed here amid so much nakedness, 
and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are 
under a cursed necessity of studying selfishness 
in order that we may exist ! Still there are in 
every age, a few souls, that all the wants and 
woes of this life cannot debase to selfishness 
or even to the necessary alloy of caution 
and prudence. If ever I am in danger of vanity 
it is when I contemplate myself on this side of 
my disposition and character. God knows I am 
no saint ; I have a whole host of follies and sins 
to answer for ; but if I could, and I believe I do 
it as far as I can, T would wipe away all tears 
from all eyes. — Adieu ! 



No. XCV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, ]9th April, 1790. 

I have just now, my ever-honored friend, en- 
joyed a very high luxury, in reading a paper of 
the Lou7iger. You know my national prejudices. 



I had often read and admired the Spectator, Ad- 
venturer, Rambler, and World ; but still with a 
certain regret that they were so thoroughly and 
entirely English. Alas ! have 1 often said to my- 
self, what are all the boasted advantages which 
my country reaps from the union, that can coun- 
terbalance the annihilation ol her independence, 
and even her very name ! I often repeat that 
couplet of my favorite poet, Goldsmith — 

" States of native liberty posscss'd, 
Tho' very poor, may yet be very bless'd." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common 
terms " English ambassador, English court," 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see that 
equivocal character Hastings impeached by " the 
Commons of England." Tell me, my friend, 
is this weak prejudice ? I believe in my consci- 
ence such ideas as, " my country ; her indepen- 
dence ; her honor ; the illustrious names that 
mark the history of my native land ;" &.c. I be- 
lieve these, among your men of the world, men 
who in fact guide for the most part and govern 
our world, are looked on as so many modifica- 
tions of wrongheadedness. They know the use 
of bawling out such terms, to rouse or lead the 
RABBLE ; but for their own private use ; with al- 
most all the ablest statesmen that ever existed, 
or now exist, when they talk of right and wrong 
they only mean proper and improper, and their 
measure of conduct is not what they ought, but 
what they dare. For the truth of this I shall 
not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to 
one of the ablest judges of men, and himself one 
of the ablest men that ever lived — the celebra- 
ted Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who 
could thoroughly control his vices whenever 
they interfered with his interests, and who could 
completely put on the appearance of every virtue 
as often as it suited his purposes, is, on the Stan- 
hopian plan, the perfect man ; a man to lead 
nations. But are great abilities, complete with- 
out a flaw, and polished without a blemish, the 
standard of human excellence ? This is certain- 
ly the staunch opinion of men of the world ; but 
I call on honor, virtue, and worth, to give the 
Stygian doctrine a loud negative ! However, thia 
must be allowed, that if you abstract from man 
the idea of existence beyond the grave, then the 
true measure of human conduct is proper and 
improper : Virtue and vice as dispositions of the 
heart, are, in that case, of scarcely the same 
import and value to the world at large, as har- 
mony and discord in the modificaiions of sound ; 
and a delicate sense of honor, like a nice ear for 
music, though it may sometimes give the pos- 
sessor an ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs 
of the herd, yet considering the harsh gratings 
and inharmonic jars, in this ill-timed state of be- 
ing, it is odds but the individual would be as 
happy, and certainly would be as much respected 
by the true judges of society, as it would then 
stand, without either a good ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I am 
quite in raptures with them ; I should be glad to 
have your opinion of some of the papers. The 
one I have just read. Lounger, No. 61, has cost 
me more honest tears than anything I have read 
of a long time. M'Kenzie has been called the 
Addison of the Scots; and in my opinion Addi- 
son would not be hurt at the comparison. If he 
has not Addison's exquisite humor, he ascer- 



268 



LETTERS. 



tainly outdoes him in the tender and pathetic. 
His 3Ian of Feel'mg, (but I am not counsel- 
learned in the laws of criticism,) I estimate as 
the first performance in its kind, I ever saw. 
From what book, moral, or even pious, will 
the susceptible young mind receive impressions 
more congenial to humanity and kindness, gen- 
erosity and benevolence ; in short, more of all 
that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears her 
to others-^than from the simple, affecting tale of 
poor Harley ? 

Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set out, 
as the phrase is, to make his way into life. Do 
not you thmk. Madam, that among the few fa- 
vored of Heaven in the structure of their 
minds (for such there certainly are,) there 
may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an 
elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in 
some degree, absolutely disqualifying for the 
truly important business of making a man's way 
into life. If I am not much mistaken, my gal- 
lant young friend, A***** is very much under 
these disqualifications ; and for the young fe- 
males of a family I could mention, well may 
they excite parental solicitude; for T, a common 
acquaintance, or as my vanity will have it, an 
humble friend, have often trembled for a turn of 
mind which may render them eminently happy 
— or peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses late- 
ly : but as I have got the most hurried season 
of excise-business over, I hope to have more 
leisure to transcribe any thing that may show 
how much I have the honour to be, Madam, 
yours, &c. 



No. XCVI. 



FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
Edinburgh, 25th May, 1789. 

My Dear Burns, — 

I am much indebted to you for your last 
friendly epistle, and it shall make a part of the 
vanity of my composition, to retain your corres- 
pondence through life. It was remarka()le your 
introducing the name of Miss Burnet, at a time 
when she was in such ill health : and I am sure 
it will grieve your gentle heart, to hear of her 
being in the last stage of a consumption. Alas I 
that so much beauty, innocence, and virtue, 
should be nipped in the bud. Hers was the 
smile of cheerfulness — of sensibility, not of al- 
lurement ; and her elegance of manners cor- 
responded with the purity and elevation of her 
mind. 

How does your friendly muse ? I am sure 
she still retains her affection for you, and that 
you have many of her favors in your possession 
which I have not seen. I weary much to hear 
from you. 



I beseech you do not forget me. 



I most sincerely hope all your concerns in life 
prosper, and that your roof-tree enjoys the bles- 
eing of good health. All your friends here are 



well, among whom, and not theleast, is your ac- 
quaintance, C leghorn. As for myself, I am well 
as far as ***'*** vvill let a man be, but with 
these I am happy. 



When you meet with my very agreeable 
friend, J Syme, give him for me a hearty squeeze 
and bid God bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon in 
Edinburgh ? 



No. xcvn. 

TO DR. MOORE. 
Dumfries Excise-office, lith July, 1790. 
Sir,— 

Coming into town this morning, to attend my 
duty in this otfice, it being collection-day, I met 
with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way 
to London ; so I take the opportunity of writing 
to you, as franking is at present under a tempo- 
rary death. 1 shall have some snatches of leis- 
ure through the day, amid our horrid business 
and bustle, and I shall improve them as well as 
1 can ; but let my letter be as stupid as * 
* * *, as miscellaneous as a newspaper, 
as short as a hungry grace-before-meat, or as 
long as a law paper in the Douglass cause ; as 
ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, or as un- 
sightly a scrawl as Betty Byre-Mucker's answer 
to it — I hope, considering circumstances, you 
will forgive it ; and, as it will put you to no ex- 
pense of postage, I shall have the less reflection 
about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
thanks for your most valuable present, Zeluco. 
In fact you are in some degree blameable for 
my neglect. You were pleased to express a 
wish for my opinion of the work, which so flat- 
tered me that nothing less would serve my 
overweening fancy, than a formal criticism on the 
book. In fact, I have gravely planned a com- 
parative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and 
Smollet, in your different qualities and merits 
as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my ri- 
diculous vanity, and I may probably never bring 
the business to bear; but I am fond of the spir- 
it young Elihu shows in the book of Job, — 
*' And I said, I will also declare my opinion." 
I have quite disfigured my copy of the book 
with my annotations. 1 never take it up with- 
out at the same time taking my pencil, and 
marking with asterisms, parentheses, &:,c. 
wherever I meet with an original thought, a ner- 
vous remark on life and manners, a remarkably 
well turned period, or a character sketched with 
uncommon precision. 

Though I shall hardly think of fairly writing 
out my " Comparative View,'' I shall certainly 
trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman, thai 
horrid summons in the book of Revelation— 
"That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
debted to the fair author for the book, and not, 
as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of 
the other sex, 1 sliould certainly have written to 



LETTERS 



2G9 



the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, 
and my own ideas of the comparative excellence 
of her pieces. 1 would do this last, not from any 
vanity of thinking that my remarks could be of 
much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely 
from my own feeling as an author, doing as I 
would be done by. 



No. XCVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

8a Aug. 1790. 
Dear Madam, — 

After a long day's toil, plague and care, I sit 
down to write to you. Ask me not why I have 
delayed it so long ? It was owing to hurry, in- 
dolence, and fifty other things ; in short to any 
thing — but forgetfulness of la plus amiable de 
son sexe. By the by, you are indebted your 
best courtesy to me for this last compliment, as 
I pay it from my sincere conviction of its truth — 
a quality rather rare in compliments of these 
grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope wriiing to you will ease a little 
my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised 
to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an in- 
timate acquaintance of yours, has given my feel- 
ings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dan- 
gerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride! 



No. XCIX. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 8tk August, 1790. 

Forgive me my once dear, and ever dear 
friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot 
sit down and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country grannum at a family christening ; a 
bride on the marketday before her marriage ! * 
*******)^ * 

* * * a tavern-keeper at an election 
dinner; &lc. &c. — but the resemblance that 
hits my fancy best, is that blackguard miscreant 
Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, seek- 
ing, searching whom he may devour. Howev- 
er, tossed about as I am, if I choose (and who 
would not choose) to bind down with the cram- 
pets of attention the brazen foundation of integ- 
rity, I may rear up the superstructure of Inde- 
pendence, and, from its daring turrets, bid defi- 
ance to the storms of fate. And is not this a 
" consummation devoutly to be wished ?" 

"Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye ! 
Thy steps I follow with my hosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky!" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the 



introduction of SinoUefs Ode to Independence : 
if you have not seen the poem, I will send it to 
you. How wretched is the man that hangs on 
by the favors of the great. To shrink from ev- 
ery dignity of man, at the approach of a lordly 
piece of self-consequence, who amid all his tin- 
sel glitter and stately hauteur is but a creature 
formed as thou art — and perhaps not so well 
formed as thou art — came into the world a pu- 
ling infant as thou didst, and must go out of it aa 
all men must, a naked corse.* 



No. C. 

FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 1st September, 1790. 

How does my dear friend, much I languish to 

hear 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear ! 
With love of the Muses so strongly still smit- 
ten, 
I meant this epistle in verse to have written. 
But from age and infirmity indolence flows, 
And this, much I fear will restore me to prose. 
Anon to my business I wish to proceed, 
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed, 
A man of integrity, genius and worth, 
Who soon a performance intends to set forth : 
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free. 
Which will weekly appear by the name of the 

Bee, 
Of this from himself I enclose you a plan. 
And hope you will give what assistance you 

can. 
Entangled with business, and haunted with 

care, 
In which more or less human nature must 

share, 
Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 
The Bee, which sucks honey from every gay 

bloom. 
With some rays of your genius her work may 

illume. 
Whilst the flower whence her honey spontane- 
ously flows, 
As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- 
clude, 

And add your promotion is here understood ; 

Thus free from the servile employ of excise, 
Sir! 

We hope soon to hear you commence Supervi- 
sor : 

You then more at leisure, and free from control 

May indulge the strong passion that reigns in 
your soul ; 

But I, feeble I, must to nature give way. 

Devoted cold death's, and longevity's prey. 

From verses though languid my thoughts must 
unbend. 

Though still I remain your afiectionate friend, 
THO. BLACKLOCK. 

* Tlie preceding letter explains ttie feelings under 
which tliis was written. The strain of indignant in- 
vective goes on some time longer in the style which 
our Bard was too apt to indulge, and of which the 
reader has already seen so much. — E. 



270 



LETTERS. 



No. CI. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
Edinburgh, Uth October, 1790. 

I lately received a letter from our friend B* 
********, — what a charming fellow lost to soci- 
ety — born to great expectations — with superior 
abilities, a pure heart, and untainted morals, 
his fate in life has been hard indeed — still I am 
persuaded he is happy : not like the gallant, the 
gay Lothario, but in the simplicity of rural en- 
joyment, unmixed with regret at the remem- 
brance of ' ' the days of other years." * 

I saw Mr. Dunbar put under the cover of 
your newspaper Mr. Wood's poem on Thomson. 
This poem has suggested an idea to me which 
you alone are capable to execute — a song adapt- 
ed to each season of the year The task is dif- 
ficult, but the theme is charming : should you 
succeed, I will undertake to get new music wor- 
thy of the subject. What a fine field for your 
imagination ! and who is there alive can draw 
60 many beauties from Nature and pastoral im- 
agery as yourself? Jt is, by the way, surpris- 
ing, that there does not exist, so far as I know, 
a -proper »ong for each season. We have songs 
on hunting, fishing, skating, and one autumnal 
song, Harvest Home. As your Muse is neither 
spavined nor rusty, you may mount the hill of 
Parnassus, and return with a sonnet m your 
pocket for every season. For my suggestions, 
if I be rude, correct me ; if impertinent, chas- 
tise me ; if presuming, despise me. But if you 
blend all my weaknesses, and pound out one 
grain of insincerity, then I am not thy 

Faithful Friend, &c. 



No. CIl. 



TO MRS, DUNLOP. 

November, 1790. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
news from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
from you in return for the many tidings of sor- 
row which I have received. In this instance I 
most cordially obey the apostle — " Rejoice with 
them that do rejoice," — for me to sing for joy 
is no new thing ; but to preach ior joy, as I have 
done in the commencement of this epistle, is a 
pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose 
before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy — 
How could such a mercurial creature as a poet 
lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the 
best news from his best friend ? I seized my 
gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- 
pensibly necessary in my left hand, in the mo- 
ment of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, 
stride — quick and quicker — out skipped I among 
the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my 
joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose 
was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant 

* The person here alluded to is Mr. S. who engaged 
the Editor in this undertaking. See ihe Dedication. 
E. 



but not a more sincere compliment, to the sweet 
little fellow, than I, extempore, almost, poured 
out to him in the following verses. See Poems 
p. 55. — On the Birth of a Posthumous Child. 



I am much flattered by your approbation of 
my Tarn o' Shanter, which you express in your 
former letter; though, by the by, you load me 
in that letter with accusations heavy and many; 
to all which I plead not guilty ! Your book is, 
I hear, on the road to reach me. As to printing 
of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, 
you have only to spell it right, and place the cap- 
ital letters properly: as to the punctuation, the 
printers do that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o' Shanter ready to send 
you by the first opportunity ; it is too heavy to 
send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in conse- 
quence of your recommendation, is most zealous 
to serve me. Please favor me soon with an ac- 
count of your good folks ; if Mrs- H. is recover- 
ing, and the young gentleman doing well. 



No. cm. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 2Zd January, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear friend ! As many of the good things 
of this life as is consistent with the usual mix- 
ture of good and evil in the cup of being. 

I have just finished a poem, which you will 
receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the 
way of tales, 

I have for these several months been ham- 
mering at an elegy on the amiable and accom- 
plished Miss Burnet, I have got, and can get 
no farther than the following fragment, on which 
please give me your strictures. In all kinds of 
poetic composition I set great store by your 
opinion r but in sentimental verses, in the poe- 
try of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set 
more value on the infallibility of the Holy Fa- 
ther than I do on yours, 

I mean the introductory couplets as text 
verses,* 

* * * * 

Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 



No, CIV. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

\lth January, 1791. 
Take these two guineas, and place them over 
against that ****** account of yours ! which 
has gagged my mouth these five or six months! 
I can as little write good things as apologies to 
the man I owe money to, O the supreme curse 
of making three guineas do the business of five ! 
Not all the labors of Hercules ; not all the He- 
brews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage 
were such an insuperable business, such an ** 

* Inrimediately after this were copied the first six 
stanzas of the Elegy given in p. 62, of the Poerna. 



LETTERS 



271 



****** task I Poverty ! thou half-sister of 
death, thou cousin-german of hell 1 where shall 
I find force of execration equal to the amplitude 
of thy demerits? Oppressed by thee, the ven- 
erable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of 
every virtue, laden with years and wretched- 
ness, implores a little — little aid to support his 
existence from a stony-hearted son of Mam- 
mon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a 
cloud; and is by him denied and insulted. Op- 
pressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose 
heart glows with independence, and melts with 
sensibility, inly pines under the neglect, or 
writhes in bitterness of soul under the contume- 
ly of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed 
by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-siarred 
ambition plants him at the tables of the fash- 
ionable and polite, must see in sufierintj silence 
his remark neglected, and his person despised, 
while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts 
at wit, shall meet with countenance and ap- 
plause. Nor is it only the family of worth that 
have reason to complain of thee ; the children 
of folly and vice, though in common with thee 
the offspring of evil, siuart equally under thy 
rod. Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate 
disposition and neglected education, is con- 
demned as a fool for his dissipation, despised 
and shunned as a needy wretch, when his fol- 
lies, as usual, bring him to want ; and when 
his unprincipled necessities drive him to dis- 
honest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, 
and perishes by the justice of his country. But 
far otherwise is the lot of the man of family 
and fortune. His early follies and extravagance 
are spirit and fire ; his consequent wants are 
the embarrassments of an honest fellow ; and 
when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a 
legal commission to plunder distant provinces, 
or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, per- 
haps, laden with the spoils of rapine and mur- 
der ; lives wicked and respected, and dies a ** 
**** and a lord. Nay, worst of all, alas, for 
helpless woman I the needy prostitute, who has 
shivered at the corner of the street, waiting to 
earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left 
neglected and insulted, ridden down by the 
chariot-wheels of the coroneted Rip, hurrying 
on to the guilty assignation ; she who without 
the same necessities to plead, riots nightly in 
the same guilty trade. 

Well ! Divines may say of it what they 
please, but execration is to the mind what 
phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital sluices of 
both are wonderfully relieved by their respec- 
tive evacuations. 



No. CV. 
FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 



Edinburgh, 12th March, 1791. 



SrR, 



Mr. Hill yesterday put into my hands a sheet 
of Grose's Antiquities, containing a poem of 
yours entitled, Tumo' Shanter, a tale. The very 
high pleasure I have received from the perusal 
of this admirable piece, I feel, demands the 
warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells me he 
is to send off a packet for you this day ; I can- 
not resist, therefore, putting on paper what I 



must have told you in person, had I met with 
you after the recent perusal of your tale, which 
is, that I feel I owe you a debt, which, if un- 
discharged, would reproach me with ingrati- 
tude. 1 have seldom in my life tasted of higher 
enjoyment from any work of genius, than I 
have received from this composition : and I am 
much mistaken, if this poem alone, had you 
never written another syllable, would not have 
been sufficient to have transmitted your name 
down to posterity with high reputation. In the 
introductory part, where you paint the charac- 
ter of your hero, and exhibit him at the ale- 
house ifiirle, with his tipling cronies, you have 
delineated nature with a humor and naivete that 
would do honor to Matthew Prior; but when 
you describe the infernal orgies of the witches' 
sabbath, and the hellish scenery in which they 
are exhibited, you display a power of imagina- 
tion that Shakspeare himself could not have 
exceeded. I know not that I have ever met 
with a picture of more horrible fancy than the 
following : 

"Coffins stood round like open pres.ses. 
That shawM the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a liglit." 

But when I came to the succeeding lines, my 
blood ran cold within me : 

" A knife, a father's tliroat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
The t^ray hairs yet stack to the heft.-' 

And here, after the two following lines, " Wi' 
mair o' horrible and awfu\" &c. the descrip- 
tive part might perhaps have been better closed, 
than the four lines which succeed, which, 
though good in them.eelves, yet as they derive 
all their merit from the satire they contain, are 
here rather misplaced among the circumstances 
of pure horror.* The initiation of the young 
witch, is most happily described — the effect ot 
her charms exhibited in the dance on Satan 
himself — the apostrophe, "Ah! little thought 
thy reverend grannie I" — the transport of Tarn, 
who forgets his situation, and enters completely 
into the spirit of the scene, are all features of 
high merit in this excellent composition. The 
only fault that it possesses, is, that the winding 
up, or conclusion of the story, is not commen- 
surate to the interest which is excited by the 
descriptive and characteristic painting of the 
preceding parts. The preparation is fine, but 
the result is not adequate. But for this, per- 
haps, you have a good apology — you stick to 
the popular tale. 

And now that I have got out my mind, and 
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
I owed you, let me end this desultory scroll, by 
an advice: you have proved your talent for a 
species of composition in which but a very few 
of our own poets have succeeded — Go on — 
write more tales in the same style — you will 
eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for with equal 
wit, equal power of numbers, and equal naivete 
of expression, you have a bolder, and more vig- 
orous imagination. 

1 am, dear Sir, with much esteem, 
Yours, &.C. 

* Our Bard profited by Mr. Tytlor's criticisms, and 
expunged the four lines accordingly. 



272 



LETTERS. 



No, CVI. 
TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

Sir,— 

Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I 
have met with could have prevented my grate- 
ful acknowledgments for your letter. His own 
favorite poem, and that an essay in a walk of 
the muses entirely new to him, where conse- 
quently his hopes and fears were on the most 
anxious alarm for his success in the attempt : 
to have that poem so much applauded by one 
of the first judges, was the most delicious vibra- 
tion that ever trilled along the heart-strings of 
a poor poet. However, Providence, to keep up 
the proper proportion of evil with the good, 
which it seems is necessary in this sublunary 
state, thought proper to check my exultation by 
a very serious misfortune. A day or two after 
I received your letter, my horse came down 
with me and broke my right arm. As this is 
the first service my arm has done me since its 
disaster, I find myself unable to do more than just 
in general terms to thank you for this additional 
instance of your patronage and friendship. As 
to the faults you detected in the piece, they are 
truly there : one of them, the hit at the lawyer 
and priest, I shall cut out : as to the falling off 
in the catastrophe, for the reason you justly ad- 
duce, it cannot easily be remedied. Your ap- 
probation. Sir, has given me such additional 
spirits to persevere, in this species of poetic 
composition, that I am already revolving two 
or three stories in my fancy. If I can bring 
these floating ideas to bear any kind of embod- 
ied form, it will give me an additional oppor- 
tunity of assuring you how much I have the 
honor to be, &c. 



No. CVII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Ith February, 1791. 

When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have been 
a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve 
me in writing, you will allow that it is too good 
an apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. 
I am now getting better, and am able to rhyme 
a little, which implies some tolerable ease ; as 
I cannot think that the most poeiic genius is able 
to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you 
my having an idea of composing an elegy on the 
late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. I had the hon- 
or of being pretty well acquainted with her, and 
have seldom felt so much at the loss of an ac- 
quaintance, as when I heard that so amiable and 
accomplished a piece of God's works was no 
more. I have as yet gone no farther than the 
following fragment, of which please let me have 
your opinion. You know that elegy is a sub- 
ject so much exhausted, that any new idea on 
the business is not to be expected ; 'tis well if 
we can place an old idea in a new light. How 
far I have succeeded as to this last, you will 
judge from what follows: — 



{Here followed the Elegy, as given in the Po- 
ems, p. 62, with this additional verse): 

The parent's, heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ; 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravished, leaves it bleaii and bare. 



I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance 
of your godson came safe. This last, Madam, 
is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to the 
little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy 
I have of a long time seen. He is now seven- 
teen months old, has the small-pox and measles 
over, has cut several teeth, and yet never had a 
grain of doctor's drugs in his bowels. 

I ani truly happy to hear that the " little flow- 
eret'' is blooming so fresh and fair, and that tho 
*' mother plant" is rather recovering her droop- 
ing head. Soon and well may her "cruel 
wounds" be healed ! I have written thus far 
with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a 
httle abler, you shall hear farther from. 

Madam, yours, &c. 



No. CVIII. 



TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

Acknowledging a present of a valuable Snuff- 
box, with a fine picture of Mary Queen of 
Scots, on the Lid. 

My Lady, — 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident of 
having lately broken my right arm, could have 
prevented me, the moment I received your 
Ladyship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from 
returning you my warmest and most grateful 
acknowledgments. I assure your Ladyship I 
shall set it apart ; the symbols of religion shall 
only be more sacred. In the moment of poetic 
composition, the box shall be my inspiring ge- 
nius. When I would breathe the comprehensive 
wish of benevolence for the happiness of others, 
I shall recollect your Ladyship : when I would 
interest my fancy in the distresses incident to 
humanity, I shall remember the unfortunate 
Mary. 



No. CIX. 



TO MRS. GRAHAM, 

of fintry. 

Madam, — 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar efiect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I have in the en- 
closed ballad succeeded beyond my usual poetic 
success, I know not : but it has pleased me be- 
yond ajiy effort of my muse for a good while 
past : on that account I enclose it particularly to 
you. It is true, the purity of my motives may 
be suspected. I am already deeply indebted to 
Mr. G 's goodness ; and what, in the usual 



LETTERS 



273 



voay$ of men, is of infinitely greater importance, 
Mr. G. can do me service of the utmost impor- 
tance in time to come. I was born a poor dog ; 
and however I may occasionally picli a better 
bone than I used to do, I know I must live and 
die poor ; but I will indulge the flattering faith 
that my poetry will considerably outlive my 
poverty ; and, without any fustian affectation of 
spirit, I can promise and affirm, that it must be 
no ordinary cravingof the latter shall ever make 
me do any thing injurious to the honest fame of 
the former. Whatever may be my failings, for 
failings are a part of human nature, may they 
ever be those of a generous heart and an in- 
dependent mind ! It is no lault of mine that I 

was born to dependence ; nor is it Mr. G 's 

chiefest praise that he can command influence ; 
but it is his merit to bestow, not only with the 
kindness of a brother, but with the politeness 
of a gentleman ; and I trust it shall be mine to 
receive with thankfulness, and remember with 
undiminished gratitude. 



No, ex. 



FROM THE REV. G. BAIRD. 
London, 8th February, 1791. 
Sib,— 

I trouble you with this letter to inform you 
that I am in hopes of being able very soon to 
bring to the press, a new edition (long since 
talked of) oi Michael Bruce' s Potms. The pro- 
fits of the edition are to go to his mother — a wo- 
man of eighty years of age — poor and helpless. 
The poems are to be published by subscription; 
and it may be possible, I think to make out a 
2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, with the assistance of a 
few hitherto unpublished verses, which I have 
got from the mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in writing to 
you, is not merely to inform you of these facts, 
it is to solicit the aid of your name and pen, in 
support of the scheme. The reputation of Bruce 
is already high with every reader of classical 
taste, and I shall be anxious to guard against tar- 
nishing his character, by allowing any new po- 
ems to appear that may lower it. For this pur- 
pose the MSS. I am in possession of, have been 
submitted to the revision of some whose critical 
talents I can trust to, and I mean still to sub- 
mit them to others. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you will take 
the trouble of perusing the MSS. — of giving 
your opinion, and suggesting what curtailments, 
alterations, or amendments, occur to you as 
advisable ? And will you allow us to let it be 
known, that a few lines by you will be added to 
the volume? 

I know the extent of this request. It is bold 
to make it. But I have this consolation, that 
though you see it proper to refuse it, you will 
not blame me for having made it ; you will see 
my apology in the motive. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one in 
whose company, from his past appearance, you 
would not, I am convinced, blush to be found ; 
and as I would submit every line of his that 
should now be published, to your own criticisms 
vou would be assured that nothing derogatory, 

18 



either to him or you, would be admitted in that 
appearance he may make in future. 

You have already paid an honorable tribute 
to kindred genius, in Fergusson ; I fondly hope 
that the mother of Bruce will experience your 
patronage. 

I wish to have the subscription-papers circu- 
lated by the 14ih of March, Bruce's birthday, 
which I understand some friends in Scotland 
talk this year of observing — at that time it will 
be resolved, I imagine, to place a plain humble 
stone over his grave. This at least I trust you 
will agree to do — to furnish, in a few couplets, 
an iitacription for it. , 

On these points may I solicit an answer as 
early as possible ? A short delay might disap- 
point us in procuring that relief to the mother, 
which is the object of the whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me under 
cover to the Duke of Athole, London. 

P. S. Have you ever seen an engraving pub- 
lished here some time ago, from one of^ your 
poems, " thou pale Orb .'^ If you have not, 
I shall have the pleasure of sending it to you. 



No. CXL 



TO THE REV. G BAIRD. 

In answer to the foregoing. 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in 
such a hesitating style, on the business of poor 
Bruce? Don't 1 know, and have I not felt the 
many ills, the peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is 
heir to ? You shall have your choice of all the 
unpublished poems I have ; and had your let- 
ter had my direction so as to have reached me 
sooner (it only came to my hand this moment) I 
should have directly put you out of suspense 
on the subject. I only ask that some prefatory 
advertisement in the book, as well as the sub- 
scription-bills, may bear that the publication ia 
solely for the benefit of Bruce 's mother. I would 
not put it in the power of ignorance to surmise 
or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share in 
the work for mercenary motives. Nor need 
you give me credit for any remarkable generos- 
ity in my part of the business. I have such a 
host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and back- 
slidings (any body but myself might perhaps 
give some of them a worse appellation,) that by 
way of some balance, however trifling, in tho 
account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in 
my very limited power to a fellow-creature, 
just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little 
the vista of retrospection. 



No. cxn. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, 28th February, 1791. 

T do not know, Sir, whether you are a subscri- 
ber to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If you 
are, the enclosed poem will not be altogether new 



274 



LETTERS. 



to you. Captain Grose did me the favor to send 
me a dozen copies, of the proof-sheet, of which 
this is one. Should you have read the piece be- 
fore, still this will answer the principal end 1 
have in view ! It will give me another opportu- 
nity of thanking you for all your goodness to the 
rustic bard; and also of showing you, that the 
abilities you have been pleased to commend and 
patronize, are still employed in the way you 
wish. 

The Elegy on Captain. Heiidersov is a tribute 
to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets 
have in this the same advantage as Roman Cath- 
olics ; they can be of service to their friends af- 
ter they have past that bourne where all other 
kindness ceases to be of any avail. Whether, 
after all, either the one or the other be of any 
real service to the dead, is I fear, very problem- 
atical : but I am sure they are highly gratifying 
to the living ; and, as a very orthodox text, I 
forget where in Scripture, says, "whatsoever 
is not of faith is sin ;" so say I, whatsoever is 
not detrimental to society, and is of positive en- 
joyment is of God, the giver of all good things, 
and ought to be received and enjoyed by his 
creatures with thankful delight. As almost all 
my religious tenets originate from my heart, I 
am wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I 
can still keep up a tender intercourse with the 
dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly be- 
loved mistress, who is gone to the world of 
spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while 
T was busy with Percy's Eeliques of English 
Poetry. By the way, how much is every hon- 
est heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian 
prejudice, obliged to you for your glorious story 
of Buchanan and Targe 5 'Twas an unequivocal 
proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving 
Targe the victory. I should have been morti- 
fied to the ground if you had not. 



I have just read over, once more of many 
'times, your Zeluco. I marked with my pencil, 
as I went along, every passage that pleased me 
.particularly above the rest ; and one, or two I 
think, which with humble deference, I am dis- 
.posed to think unequal to the merits of the book, 
1 have sometimes thought to transcribe these 
marked passages, or at least so much of them 
as to point where they are, and send them to 
you. Original strokes that strongly depict the 
huHian heart, is your and Fielding's province, 
beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. 
Richardson indeed might be excepted ; but un- 
happily, his dramatis personcB are beings of 
some other world : and however they may capti- 
vate the .inexperienced romantic fancy of a boy 
or girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have 
made human nature our study, dissatisfy our ri- 
per minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a 
mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
lately had the interest to get myself ranked on 
the list of Excise as a supervisor. I am not yet 
em|)loyed as such, but in a few years I shall fall 
into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I 
have had an immense loss in the death of the Earl 
of Glencairn, the patron from whom all my 
fame and good fortune took its rise. Independ. 



I ent of my grateful attachment to him, which 
was indeed so strong that it pervaded my very 
soul, and was entwined with the tiiread of my 
existence ; so soon as the prince's friends had 
got in, (and every dog, you know, has his day) 
my getting forward in the Excise would have 
been easier business than otherwise it will be. 
Though this was a consummation devoutly to 
be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and 
rhyme as I am ; as to my boys, poor little fel- 
lows! if I cannot place them on as high an ele- 
vation in life as 1 could wish, I shall, if I am 
favored so much of the Disposer of events as to 
see that period, fix them on as broad and inde- 
pendent a basis as possible. Among the many 
wise adages which have been treasured up by 
our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best, 
Better be the head o the commonalty as the tail 
o' the gentry. 

But 1 am got on a subject, which, however 
interesting to me, is of no manner of conse- 
quence to you : so I shall give you a short poem 
on the other page, and close this with assuring 
you how sincerely I have the honor to be yours, 
&c. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book which I 
presented to a very young lady whom 1 had for- 
merly characterized under the denomination of 
The Rosebud. See Poems, p. 53. 



No. CXIIL 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

London, 2dth March, 1791. 

Dear Sir, — 

Your letter of the 28fh of February I receiv- 
ed only two days ago, and this day I had the 
pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr. Baird, at 
the Dukeof Athole's, who had been so obliging 
as to transmh it to me, with the printed verses 
on Alloa Church, \he Elegy on Captain Render- 
son, and the Epitaph. There are many poetical 
beauties in the former ; what 1 particularly ad- 
mire, are the three striking similes from — 
" Or like the snow-falls in the river," 
and the eight lines which begin with 

♦' By this time he was cross the ford," 

so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious 
impressions of the country. And the twenty- 
two lines from 

"Coffins stood round like open presses," 

which, in my opinion, are equal to the ingre- 
dients of Shakspeare's cauldron in Macbeth. 

As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it consists 
in the very graphical description of the objects 
belonging to the country in which the poet writes, 
and which none but a Scottish poet could have 
described, and none but a real poet, and a close 
observer of Nature, could have so described. 



There is something original, and to me won- 
derfully pleasing in the Ejntaph. 
I remember you once hinted before, what you 



LETTERS. 



275 



repeat in your last, that you had made some re- 
marks on Zeluco on the margin. I should be 
very glad to see them, and regret you did not 
send them before the last edition, which is jusf 
published. Pray transcribe them for me ; I 
sincerely value your opinion very highly, and 
pray do not suppress one of those in which you 
censure the sentiment or expression. Trust me 
it will break no squares between us — I am not 
akin to tlie bishop of Grenada. 

1 must now mention what has been on my 
mind for some time : I cannot help thinking you 
imprudent, in scattering abroad so many copies 
of your verses. It is most natural to give a few 
to confidential friends, particularly lo those who 
are connected with the subject, who are per- 
haps themselves the subject; but this ought 
to be done under promise not to give other cop- 
ies. Of the poem you sent me on Queen Mary, 
T refused every solicitation for copies, but I late- 
ly saw it in a newspaper. My motive for cau- 
tioning you on this subject, is, that I wish to 
engage you to collect all your fugitive pieces, 
not already printed ; and, after they have been 
re-considered, and polished to the utmost of 
your power, I would have you publish them by 
another subscription : in promoting of which 1 
will exert myself with pleasure. 

In your future compositions I wish you would 
use the modern English. You have shown 
your powers in Scottish sufficiently. Although 
in certain subjects it gives additional zest to the 
humor, yet it is lost to the English : and why 
should you write only for a part of the island, 
when you could command the admiration of the 
whole ! 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs. Dun- 
lop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately remem- 
bered to her. She must not judge of the warmth 
of my sentiments respecting her by the number 
of my letters; I hardly ever write a line but on 
business ; and I do not know that I should have 
scribbled all this to you, but for the business 
part, that is to instigate you to a new publica- 
tion ; and to tell you that when you have a 
sufficient number to make a volume, you should 
set your friends on getting subscriptions. I 
wish I could have a few hours conversation with 
you — I have many things to say which I cannot 
write. If ever I go to Scotland, I will let you 
know, that you may meet me at your own 
house, or my friend Mrs. Hamilton, or both. 
Adieu, my dear Sir, Slc. 



No. CXIV. 
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, lith Feb. 1791. 

Sir,— 

You must, by this time, have set me down 
as one of the most ungratef^ul of men. You did 
me the honor to present me with a book which 
does honor to science and the intellectual pow- 
ers of man, and I have not even so much as 
acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, 
you yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I 
was by your telling me that you wished to have 
my opinion of the work, the old spiritual enemy 
of mankind, who knows well that vanity is one 



of the sins that most easily beset me, put it in- 
to my head to ponder over the performance with 
the look-out of a critic, and to draw up, forsooth, 
a deep-learned digest of strictures, on a compo- 
sition, of which, in fact, until I read the book, 
I did not even know the first principles. I own 
Sir, that, at first glance, several of your proposi- 
tions startled me as paradoxical. That the martial 
clangor of a trumpet had something in it vastly 
more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twin- 
gle-twangle of a Jew's-harp; that the delicate 
flexure of a rose twig, when the half-blown flow- 
er is heavy with the tears of the dawn, was in- 
finitely more beautiful and elegant than the up- 
right stub of a burdock ; and that from some- 
thing innate and independent of all association 
of ideas ; — these I had set down as irrefragable 
orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook 
my faith. In short. Sir, except Euclid's Ele- 
ments of Geometry, which 1 made a shift to un- 
ravel by my father's fire-side, in the winter 
evenings of the first season I held the plough, I 
never read a book which gave me such a quan- 
tum of information, and added so much to my 
stock of ideas, as your " Essays on the Princi- 
ples of Taste."" One thing, Sir, you must for- 
give my mentioning as an uncommon merit in 
the work, I mean the language. To clothe ab- 
stract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds 
something like a contradiction in terms ; but 
you have convinced me that they are quite com- 
patible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my 
late composition. The one in print is my first 
essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am, Sir, (Sec. 



No. CXV. 



Extract of a Letter 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

\2th March, 1791. 

If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, 
let me have them. For my own part, a thing 
that I have just composed always appears through 
a double portion of that partial medium in which 
an author will ever view his own works, i believe 
in general, novelty has something in it that in- 
ebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissi- 
pates and fumes away like other intoxication, 
and leaves the poor patient, as usual, with an 
aching heart. A striking instance of this might 
be adduced in the revolution of many a hyme- 
neal honey-moon. But lest I sink into stupid 
prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the of- 
fice of my parish priest, I shall fill up the page 
in my own way. and give you another song of 
my late composition, which will appear, per- 
haps, in Johnson's works, as well as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air 
There'll never he peace till Jamie come hame. 
When political combustion ceases to be the ob- 
ject of princes and patriots, it then, you know 
becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets.* 



* Here followed a copy of the Sone printed in p. 62 
of the Poems. " By yon castle wa'/' &.c. 



276 



LETTERS. 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your 
fancy, you cannot imagine; my dear friend, how 
much you would oblige me, if, by the charms 
of your dehghtful voice, you would give my 
honest effusion to " the memory of joys that 
are past !" to the few friends whom you indulge 
in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till 
] hear the clock has intimated the near approach 
of 

"That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane." 

So, good night to you ! sound be your sleep, 
and delectable your dreams! A-propos, how do 
you like this thought in a ballad 1 have just now 
on the tapis ? 

I look to the west when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 

For far in the west is he I lo'e best, e 

The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! 

Good night, once more, and God bless you I 



No. CXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Mtk April, 1791. 

I am once more able, my honored friend, to 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many instances of your friendship, and particu- 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster 
that my evil genius had in store for me. How- 
ever, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — for on 
Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a 
present of a fine boy, rather stouter, but not so 
handsome as your godson was at his time of life. 
Indeed I look on your little name sake to be my 
chef d'ceuvrem that species of manufacture, as I 
look on Tam o' Shanter to be my standard per- 
formance in the poetical line. 'Tis true both 
the one and the other discover a spice of roguish 
"waggery that might, perhaps, be as well spared; 
but then they also show, in my opinion, a force 
of genius, and a finishing polish that I despair 
of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout 
again, and laid as lustily about her to-day at 
breakfast, as a reaper from the corn ridge. That 
is the peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale 
and sprightly damsels, that are bred among the 
hay and heather. We cannot hope for that 
highly pohshed mind, that charming delicacy 
of soul, which is found among the female world 
in the more elevated stations of life, and which 
is certainly by far the most bewitching charm 
in the famous cestus of Venus. It is, indeed, 
such an inestimable treasure, that where it can 
be had in its native heavenly purity, unstained 
by some one or other of the many shades of af- 
fectation, and unalloyed by some one or other 
of the many species of caprice, I declare to 
Heaven, I should think it cheaply purchased at 
the expense of every other earthly good ! But 
as this angelic creature is, I am afraid extremely 
rare in any station and rank of life, and totally 
denied to such an humble one as mine ; we 
meaner mortals must put up with the next rank 
of female excellence — as fine a figure and face 
we can produce as any rank of life whatever ; 
rustic, native grace ; unaffected modesty, and 
unsullied purity ; nature's mother wit, and the 
rudiments of taste ; a simplicity of soul unsus- 
picious of, because unacquainted with the crook- 



ed ways of a selfish, interested, disingenuous 
world ; and the dearest charm of all the rest, a 
yielding sweetness of disposition, and a gener- 
ous warmth of heart, grateful fw love on our 
part, and ardently glowing with a more than 
equal return ; these, with a healthy frame, a 
sound, vigorous constitution, which your higher 
ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the 
charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of 
life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm has 
yei made. Do let me hear, by first post, how 
cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small- 
pox. May Almighty goodness preserve and 
restore him ! 



No. CXVII. 



TO 



Dear Sib, — 

I am exceedingly to blame in not writing 
you long ago ; but the truth is, that I am the 
most indolent of all human beings : and when I 
matriculate in the herald's office, I intend that 
my supporters shall be two sloths, my crest a 
slow-worm, and the motto, " Deil tak the fore- 
most !" So much by the way of apology for not 
thanking you sooner for your kind execution of 
my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem : but some- 
how or other it found its way into the public pa- 
pers, where you must have seen it. 



I am ever, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CXVIII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

WthJune, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
in behalf of the gentleman who waiis on you 
with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, prin- 
cipal school-master there, and is at present suf- 
fering severely under the ****** of one or 
two powerful individuals of his employers. He 
is accused of harshness to * * * * that were 
placed under his care. God help the teacher, 
if a man of sensibility and genius, and such as 
my friend Clarke, when a booby father presents 
him with his booby son, and insists on light- 
ing up the rays of science in a fellow's head 
whose skull is impervious and inaccessible by 
any other way than a positive fracture with a 
cudgel ; a fellow whom, in fact, it savors of im- 
piety to attempt making a scholar of, as he has 
been marked a blockhead in the book of fate at 
the Almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are the ministers, 
magistrates, and town-council of Edinburgh ; 
and as the business comes now before them, let 
me beg my dearest friend to do every thing in 
his power to serve the interest of a man of genius 
and worth, and a man whom I particularly re- 
spect and esteem. You know some good fel- 
lows among the magistracy and council, * * 
* * * * but particularly 



LETTERS. 



277 



you have much to say with a reverend gentle- 
man, to whom you have the honor of being very 
nearly related, and whom this country and age 
have had the honoc to produce. I need not 
name the historian of Charles V.* I tell him, 
through the medium of his nephew's infhience, 
that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who will not 
disgrace even his patronage. I know the mer- 
its of the cause thoroughly, and say it, that my 
friend is falling a sacritice to prejudiced ignor- 
ance, and **♦*•*, Go(j help the children of 
dependence ! Hated and persecuted by their en- 
emies, and too often, alas ! almost unexception- 
ably, received by their friends with disrespect 
and reproach, under the thin disguise of cold 
civility and humiliating advice. O I to be a 
sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his inde- 
pendence, amid the solitary wilds of his deserts ; 
rather than in civilized life helplessly to tremble 
for a subsistence precarious as the caprice of a 
fellow creature I Every man has his virtues, and 
no man is without his failings ; and curse on 
that privileged plain-dealing of friendship, which 
in the hour of my calamity cannot reach forth 
the helping hand, without at the same time 
pointing out those failings, and apportioning 
them their share in procuring my present dis- 
tress. My friends, for such the world calls ye, 
and such ye think yourselves to be, pass by my 
virtues, if you please, but do, also, spare my fol- 
lies : the first will witness in my breast for them- 
selves, and the last will give pain enough to the 
ingenuous mind without you. And since devi- 
ating more or less from the paths of propriety 
and rectitude must be incident to human nature, 
do thou, Fortune, put it in my power, always 
from myself, and of myself, to bear the conse- 
quences of those errors I I do not want to be 
independent that I may sin, but I want to be in- 
dependent in my sinning. 

To return, in this rambling letter, to the sub- 
ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend 
Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of- 
fices : his worth entitles him to the one, and 
his gratitude will merit the other. I long much 
to hear from you — Adieu ! 



No. CXIX. 



FROM THE EARL OF BUGHAN. 

Drt/burgh Abbey, \lth June, 1791. 

Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr- 
Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust 
of Thomson, on Edman Hill, on the 22d of Sep- 
tember ; for which day, perhaps, his muse may 
inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose 
Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across 
the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest 
point from his farm — and, wandering along 
the pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent 
stream, catch inspiration on the devious walk, 
till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of 
Dryburgh. There the commendator will give 
him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp 
at the pure flame of native genius upon the altar 
of Caledonian virtue. This poetical perambu- 
lation of the Tweed, is a thought of the late 
Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Lord Minto's, follow- 

* Dr. Robertson was uncle to Mr. Cunningham. E 



ed out by his accomplished grandson, the pres- 
ent Sir Gilbert, who having been with Lord 
Buchan lately, the project was renewed, and 
will, they hope, be executed in the manner pro- 



No. CXX. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Mt Lord, — 

Language sinks under the ardor of my feel- 
ings when I would thank your Lordship for the 
honor you have done me in inviting me to make 
one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. 
In my first enthusiasm in reading the card you 
did me the honor to write to me, I overlooked 
every obstacle, and determined to go ; but I fear 
it will not be in my power. A week or two's 
absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is 
what I much doubt I dare not venture on. 

Your Lordship hints at an ode for the occasion, 
but who could write after Collins ? I read over 
his verses to the memory of Thomson, and de- 
spaired. — I got indeed, to the length of three or 
four stanzas, in the way of address to the shade 
of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall 
trouble your Lordship with the subjoined copy 
of them, which I am afraid, will be but too con- 
vincing a proof how unequal I am to the task. 
However, it affords me an opportunity of ap- 
proaching your Lordship, and declaring how 
sincerely and gratefully 1 have the honor to be, 

&.C. 



No. CXXL 



FROM THE SAME. 
Dryburgh Abbey, \6th September, 179L 
Sir,— 

Your address to the shade of Thomson has 
been well received by the public ; and though 
I should disapprove of your allowing Pegasus to 
ride with you off" the field of your honorable and 
useful profession, yet I cannot resist an impulse 
which I feel at this moment to suggest to your 
Muse, Harvest Home, as an excellent subject 
for her grateful song, in which the peculiar aspect 
and manners of our country might furnish an 
excellent portrait and landscape of Scotland, for 
the employment of happy moments of leisure 
and recess from your more important occupa 
tions. 

Your Halloween, and Saturday Night will re- 
main to distant posterity as interesting pictures 
of rural innocence and happiness in your native 
country, and were happily written in the dia- 
lect of the people ; but Harvest Home, being 
suited to descriptive poetry, except, where col- 
loquial, may escape the disguise of a dialect 
which admits of no elegance or dignity of ex- 
pression. Without the assistance of any god or 
goddess, and without the invocation of any for- 
eign Muse, you may convey in epistolary form 
the description of a scene so gladdening and 
picturesque, with all the concomitant local po- 
sition, landscape and costume t contrasting the 
peace, improvement, and happiness of the borders 



278 



LETTERS 



of the once hostile nations of Britain, with their 
former oppression and misery : and showing in 
lively and beautiful colors, the beauties and joys 
of a rural life. And as the unvitiated heart is 
naturally disposed to overflow with gratitude in 
the moment of prosperity, such a subject would 
furnish you wiih an amiable opportunity of per- 
petuating the names of Glencairn, Miller, and 
your other eminent benefactors; which, from 
what I know of your spirit, and have seen of 
your poems and letters, will not deviate from 
the chastity of praise that is so uniformly united 
to true taste and genius, 

I am Sir, &.c. 



No. CXXII. 



TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

My Lady, — 

I would as usual, have availed myself of the 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, of 
sending you anything I compose in my poetical 
way ; but as I had resolved, so soon as the 
shock of my irreparable loss would allow me, 
to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, J deter- 
mined to make that the first piece 1 should do 
myself the honor of sending you. flad the 
wing of my fancy been equal to the ardor of my 
heart, the enclosed had been much more worthy 
your perusal : as it is, I beg leave to lay it at 
your Ladyship's feet. As all the world knows 
my obligations to the Earl of Glencairn, I would 
wish to show as openly that my heart glows, 
and shall ever glow with the most grateful sense 
and remembrance of his Lordship's goodness. 
The sables I did myself the honor to wear to 
his Lordship's memory, were not the " mock- 
ery of wo.'' Nor shall my gratitude perish with 
me ! — If, among my children, I shall have a son 
that has a heart, he shall hand it down to his 
child as a family honor, and a family debt, that 
my dearest existence I owe to the noble house 
of Glencairn! 

I was about to say, my Lady, that if you 
think the poem may venture to see the light, I 
would, in some way or other, give it to the 
world.* 



No. CXXIIL 
TO MR. AINSLIE. 
My Dear Ainslie, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Can 
you amid the horrors of penitence, regret, re- 
morse, headache, nausea, and all the rest of the 
d— d hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch 
who has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness 
— can you speak peace to a troubled soul : 

Miserable perdu that I am I I have tried ev- 
ery thing that used to amuse me, but in vain ; 
here must I sit. a monument of the vengeance 
laid up in store for the wicked, slowly counting 
every check of the clock as it slowly numbers 

over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who d n 

them, are ranked up before me, every one at 

* The poem enclosed is published, — See " The La- 
ment for James Earl of Glencairn." Poems, p.49. 



his neighbor's backside, and every one with a 
burden of anguish on his back, to pour on my 
devoted head — and there is none to pity me. 
My wife scolds me ! my business torments me, 
and my sins come staring me in the face, every 
one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. — 
When I tell you even * * * has lost its power 
to please, you will guess something of my hell 
within, and all around me. — I began Elibanks 
and Elibraes; but the stanzas fell unenjoyed and 
unfinished from my listless tongue ; at last I 
luckily thought of reading over an old letter 
of yours that lay by me in my book-case, and 
I felt something, for the first time I opened my 
eyes of pleasurable existence. — VVell — I begin to 
breathe a little since I began to write you. How 
are you? and what are you doing ? How goes 
Law ? A propos, for connexion's sake, do not 
address to me supervisor, for that is an honor I 
cannot pretend to — I am on the list, as we call 
it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by 
and by to act as one : but at present I am a sim- 
ple ganger, though t'other day I got an appoint- 
ment to an excise division of ;e25 per ann. bet- 
ter than the rest. My present income, down 
money, is jCTO per ann. 

* * * * 

I have one or two good fellows here whom 
you would be glad to know. 



No. CXXIV. 

FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

Near Maybole, 15tk October, 179L 
SiK,— 

Accept of my thanks for your favor, with the 
Lament on the death of my much esteemed 
friend, and your worthy patron, the perusal of 
which pleased and affected me much. The lines 
addressed to me are very flattering. 

I have always thought it most natural to sup- 
pose (and a strong argument in favor of a future 
existence) that when we see an honorable and 
virtuous man laboring under bodily infirmities, 
and oppressed by the frowns of fortune in this 
world, that there was a happier state beyond the 
grave, where that worth and honor, which were 
neglected here, would meet their just reward ; 
and where temporal misfortunes would receive 
an eternal recompense. Let us cherish this hope 
for our departed friend, and moderate our grief 
for that loss we have sustained, knowing that he 
cannot return to us, but we may go to him. 

Remember me to your wife ; and with every 
good wish for the prosperity of you and your 
family, believe me at all times. 

Your most sincere friend. 

JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CXXV. 
FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

Edinburgh, 21th November, 179L 
Dear Sir, — 

You have much reason to blame me for neg 
lecling till now to acknowledge the receipt of a 
most agreeable packet, containing The Whistle, 



LETTERS. 



279 



a ballad : and The Lament ; which reached me 
about six weeks ago in London, from whence 
I amju9t returned. Your letter was forwarded 
to me there from Edinburgh where, as I observ- 
ed by the date, it had lain for some days. This 
was an additional reason for me to have answer- 
ed it immediately on receiving it ; but the truth 
was, the bustle of business, engagements, and 
confusion of one kind or another, in which I 
found myself immersed all the time I was in 
London, absolutely put it out of my power. But 
to have done with apologies, let me now en- 
deavor to prove myself in some degree deserv- 
ing of the very flattering compliment you pay 
me, by giving you at least a frank and candid, 
if it should not be a judicious, criticism on the 
poems you sent me. 

The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opinion 
truly excellent. The old tradition which you 
have taken up is the best adapted for a Baccha- 
nalian composition of any lever met with, and 
you have done it full justice, fn the first place, 
the strokes of wit arise naturally from the sub- 
ject, and are uncommonly happy. For example, 

'* The bands grew the tighter the more they were 

wet, 
" Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn." 
" The' Fate said — a hero should perish in light ; 
So uprose bright Phoebus, — and down fell the knight." 

In the next place, you are singularly happy in 
the discrimination of your heroes, and in giving 
each the sentiments and language suitable to his 
character. And lastly you have much merit in 
the delicacy of the panegyric which you have 
contrived to throw on each of the dramatis per- 
soiKB, perfectly appropriate to his character. The 
compliment to Sir Robert, the blunt soldier, is 
peculiarly fine. In short, this composition, in 
my opinion, does you great honor, and I see 
not a line or word in it which I could wish to be 
altered. 

As to the Lament, I suspect from some ex- 
pressions in your letter to me that you are more 
doubtful with respect to the merits of this piece 
than of the other ; and 1 own I think you have 
reason ; for although it contains some beautiful 
stanzas, as the first. " The wind blew hollow," 
&c. ; the fifth. " Ye scatter'd birds ;" the thir- 
teenth, " Awake thy last sad voice," &c. ; yet 
it appears to me faulty as a whole, and inferior 
to several of those you have already published 
in the same strain. My principal objection lays 
against the plan of the piece. I think it was 
unnecessary and improper to put the lamentation 
in the mouth of a fictitious character, an aged 
hard. — It had been much better to have lament- 
ed your patron in your own person, to have ex- 
pressed your genuine feelings for the loss, and 
to have spoken the language of nature, rather 
than that of fiction, on the subject. Compare 
this with your poem of the same title in your 
printed volume, which begins, thou -pale Orb; 
and observe what it is that forms the charm 
of that composition. It is that it speaks the lan- 
guage of ^rwf A, and of 7ia«Mre. The change is, 
in my opinion injudicious too in this respect, that 
an aged bard has much less need of a patron 
and a protector than a young one. I have thus 
given you, with much freedom, my opinion of 
both the pieces. I should have made a very ill re- 
turn to the compliment you paid me, if I had giv- 
en you any other than my genuine sentiments. 



It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
you when you find leisure ; and I beg you will 
believe me ever, dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXVI. 



TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible, Madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your youthfnl 
mind can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the chief 
of sinners; I mean a turpitude of the moral powers 
that may be called a lethargy of conscience — In 
vain Remorse rears her horrent crest, and rous- 
es all her snakes ; beneath the deadly fixed eye 
and leaden hand of Indolence, their wildest ire 
is charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumber- 
ing out the rigors of winter in the chink of a 
ruined wall. Nothing less. Madam, could have 
made me so long neglect your obliging com- 
mands. Indeed I had one apology — the baga- 
telle was not worth presenting. Besides, so 
strongly am I interested in Miss D — ; — 's fate 
and welfare in the serious business of life, amid 
its chances and changes ; that to make her the 
subject of a silly ballad, is downright mockery 
of these ardent feelings ; His Uke an impertinent 
jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven I why this disparity be- 
tween our wishes and our powers ? Why is the 
most generous wish to make others blessed, 
impotent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that 
crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks of life 
I have met with a few people to whom how 
gladly would I have said — " Go, be happy? I 
know that your hearts have been wounded by 
the scorn of the proud, whom accident has placed 
above you — or worse still, in whose hands are, 
perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your life. 
But there I ascend that rock. Independence, and 
look justly down on their littleness of soul. 
Make the worthless tremble under your indig. 
nation, and the foolish sink before your con- 
tempt ; and largely impart that happiness tooth- 
ers which I am certain, will give yourselves so 
much pleasure to bestow." 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this 
delightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why 
amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find my- 
self poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one 
tear from the eye of pity, or of adding one com- 
fort to the friend I love ! — Out upon the world 
say I, that its aifairs are administered so ill I 
They talk of reform ; good Heaven, what a re- 
form would I make among the sons and even the 
daughters of men ! — Down immediately should 
go fools from their high places, where misbegot- 
ten chance has perked them up, and through life 
should they skulk, ever haunted by their native 
insignificance, as the body marches accompan- 
ied by its shadow, — As for a much more formid- 
able class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to do 
with them ; — had I a world there should not be 
a knave in it. 



But the hand that could give, 1 would liberal- 
ly fill ; and 1 would pour delight on the heart 
that could kindly forgive and generously love. 



280 



LETTERS, 



Still the inequalities of life are among men, 
comparatively tolerable — but there is a delicacy, 
a tenderness, accompanying every view in which 
we can place lovely Woman, that are grated and 
shocked at the rude, capricious distinctions of 
fortune. Woman is the blood royal of life : let 
there be slight degrees of precedency among 
them — but let them be all sacred. Whether 
this last sentiment be right or wrong, I am not 
accountable ; it is an original component feature 
of my mind. 



No. CXXVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 11th December, 1791. 

Many thanks to you. Madam, for your good 
news respecting the little floweret and the moth- 
er-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have been 
heard, and will be answered up to the warmest 
sincerity of their fullest extent ! and then Mrs. 
Henri will find her little darling the representa- 
tive of his late parent in everything but his 
abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which 
to a lady the descendant of Wallace, and many 
heroes of his truly illustrious line, and herself 
the mother of several soldiers, needs neither 
preface nor apology. 



Scene—A Field of Battle — Time of the Day 
Evening — the wounded and dying of the vic- 
torious Ar7ny are supposed to join in the fol- 
lowing 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Farewell thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye 
ekies 

Now gay with the broad setting sun ! 
Farewell loves and friendships ; ye dear, tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ; 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe. 

Go frighten the coward and slave ! 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know 

No terrors hast thou to the brave .' 

Thou strik'st the poor peasant—he sinks in the dark. 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorious mark, 

He falls in the blaze of his fame : 

In the field of proud honor—our swords in our hands 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands— 

O, who would not die with the brave 1* 



The circumstance that gave rise to the fore- 
going verses, was looking over, with a musical 
friend. M'Donald's collection of Scottish airs, I 
was struck with one, an Isle of Syke tune, enti- 
tled Oran an Aoig, or The Song of Death, to 
the measure of which I have adapted my stan- 
zas. I have of late composed two or three oth- 
er little pieces, which ere yon full-orbed moon, 
whose broad impudent face now stares at old 

* This is a little altered from the one given in p. 62. 
of the poems. 



mother earth all night, shall have shrunk into a 
modest crescent, just peeping forth at dewy 
dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribe for you. 
A Dieuje vous commende ! 



No. CXXVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5lh January, 1792. 

You see my hurried life. Madam ; I can only 
command starts of time: however, I am glad 
of one thing ; since 1 finished the other sheet, 
the political blast that threatened my welfare is 
overblown. I have corresponded with Com- 
missioner Graham, for the Board had made me 
the subject of their animadversions ; and now I 
have the pleasure of informing you, that all is 
set to rights in that quarter. Now as to these 
informers, may the devil be let loose to ■ 

but hold I I was praying most fervently in my 
last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swear- 
ing in this. 

Alas I how little do the wantonly or idly offi- 
cious think what mischief they do by their ma- 
licious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or 
thoughtless blabbings I What a difference there 
is in intrinsic worth, candor, benevolence, gen- 
erosity, kindness — in all the charities and all 
the virtues, between one class of human beii5gs 
and another ! For instance, the amiable circle 
I so lately mixed with in the hospitable hall of 

D , their generous hearts — their uncontami- 

nated, dignified minds — their informed and pol- 
ished understandings — what a contrast, when 
compared — if such comparing were not down- 
right sacrilege — with the soul of the miscreant 
who can deliberately plot the destruction of an 
honest man that never offended him, and with 
a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate being, 
his faithful wife and prattling innocents, turned 
over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I had 
two worthy fellows dining wi.h me the other 
day, when I with great formality, produced my 
whigmeleerie cup, and told them it had been a 
family-piece among the descendants of Sir Wil- 
liam Wallace. This roused such an enthusiasm 
that they insisted on bumpering the punch 
round in it ; and by and by, never did your 
great ancestor lay a Southron more completely 
to rest, than for a time did your cup my two 
friends. A-propos ! this is the season of wish- 
ing. May God bless you, my dear friend I and 
bless me, the humblest and sincerest of your 
friends, by granting you yet many returns of 
the season ! May all good things attend you 
and yours wherever they are scattered over the 
earth ! 



No. CXXIX. 
TO MR. WILLIAM SIVJELLIE 



Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 

I sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a youn^ 

lady to you, and a lady in the first rank ot 

fashion, too. What a task ! to you — who care 

no more for the herd of animals called young 



LETTERS. 



281 



ladies, than you do for the herd of animals call- 
ed young gentlemen. To you — who despise 
and detest the groupings and combinations of 
fashion, as an idiot painter that seems industri- 
ous to place staring fools, and unprincipled 
knaves in the foreground of his picture, while 
men of sense and honesty are too often thrown 
into the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddle, who 
will take this letter to town with her, and send 
it to you, is a character that, even in your own 
way as a naturalist and a philosopher, would be 
an acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady 
too is a votary of the muses ; and as I think my- 
self somewhat of a judge in my own trade, I as- 
sure you that her verses, always correct, and of- 
ten elegant, are much beyond the common run 
of the lady poetexxes of the day. She is a great 
admirer of your book ; and hearing me say that 
I was acquainted with you, she begged to be 
known to you, as she is just going to pay her 
first visit to our Caledonian capital. I told her 
that her best way was, to desire her near rela- 
tion, and your intimate friend Craigdarroch, to 
have you at his house while she was there ; and 
lest you might think of a lively West Indian girl 
of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often deserve 
to be thought of, I should take care to remove 
that prejudice. To be impartial, however, in 
appreciating the lady's merits, she has one un- 
lucky failing ; a failing which you will easily 
discover, as she seems rather pleased with in- 
dulging in it ; and a failing that you will as eas- 
ily pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets 
yourself: — where she dislikes or despises, she 
is apt to make no more a secret of it, than where 
she esteems and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compliments of the seaxoJi, but I will send you 
my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, 
that Fortune may never throw your subsist- 
ence to the mercy of a knave, or set your 
CHARACTER ou the judgment of a fool ; but that, 
upright and erect, you may walk to an honest 
grave, where men of letters shall say. Here lies 
a man who did honor to science ! and men of 
worth shall say. Here lies a man who did honor 
to human nature ! 



No. CXXX. 
TO MR. W. NIOOL. 

20lh February, 1792. 
O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian 
blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and 
chief of many counsellors I How infinitely is 
thy puddled-headed. rattle-headed, wrong-head- 
ed, round-headed, slave, indebted to thy super- 
eminent goodness, that from the luminous path 
of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest 
benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom 
the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of 
calculation, from the simple copulation of units 
up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ; May 
one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium. straight as an arrow 
of heaven, and bright as (he meteor of inspira- 
tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face and favor of that father 
of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipode 
of folly, and magnet among sages, the wise and 



the witty Willie Nicol ! Amen I Amen ! Yea, 
so be it I 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile., and know 
nothing ! From the cave of my ignorance, amid 
the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumes 
of my political heresies, I look up to thee, as 
doth a toad through the iron-barred lucerne of a 
pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory of a 
summer sun! Sorely sighing in the bitterness 
of soul, I say, when shall my name be the quo- 
tation of the wise, and my countenance be the 
delight of the godly, like the illustrious lord of 
Laggan's many hills ?* As for him, his works 
are perfect ; never did the pen of calumny blur 
the fair page of his reputation, nor the bolt of 
hatred fly at his dwelling. 



Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine 
lamp of my glimerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine 
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers! 
As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy lips 
are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath of 
the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky- 
descended and heaven-bound desires : never did 
the vapors of impurity stain the unclouded se- 
rene of thy cerulean imagination. O that like 
thine were the tenor of my life ! like thine the 
tenor of my conversation ! then should no friend 
fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my 
weakness ! then should I lie down and rise up, 
and none to make me afraid. — May thy pity and 
thy prayer be exercised, for, O thou lamp of 
wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy devoted 
slave. t 



No. cxxxr. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

3d March, 1792, 

Since I wrote you the last lugubrious sheet, 
I have not had time to write you farther. 
When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, 
means, that the three demons, indolence, busi- 
ness, and eu7iui, have so completely shared my 
hours among them, as not to leave me a five- 
minutes' fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven. I feel my spirits buoyed up- 
wards whh the renovating year. Now I shall in 
good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare 
say he thinks I have used him uiikindly, and I 
must own with too much appearance of truth. 
A-pr'opos ' Do you know the much admired old 
Highland air, called The Sutor's Dodder? It 
is a first-rate favorite of mine, and I have writ- 
ten what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I 
will send it to you as it was sung with great ap- 
plause in some fashionable circles by Major 
Robertson of Lude, who was here with his 
corps. 



There is one commission that I must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pres- 
ent from a departed friend, which vexes me 
much. J have gotten one of your Highland 

• Mr. Nicol. 

•t This Ptrain of irony was excited by a letter of 
Mr. Nicol containing good advice. 



282 



LETTERS. 



pebbles, which I fancy would make a very de- 
cent one ; and 1 want to cut my armorial bear- 
ing on it : will you be so obliging as to inquire 
what will be the expense of such a busi- 
ness ? I do know that my name is matriculated, 
as the heralds call it, at all ; but I have invent- 
ed arms for myself, so you know I shall be chief 
of the name; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will 
likewise be entitled to supporters. These, 
however, I do not intend having on my seal. 1 
am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, secun- 
dum artem, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly 
bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe 
and crook, saltier- wise, also proper in chief. On 
a wreath of the colors, a wood-lark perching on 
a sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mot- 
toes : round the top of the crest, Wood notes 
wild ; at the bottom of the shield, in the usual 
place, Better a wee bush than nae hield. By the 
shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the 
nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a Stock and 
Horn, and a Club, such as you see at the head 
of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of 
the Gentle Shepherd. By the by, do you know 
Allan ? He must be a man of very great gen- 
ius — Why is he not more known ? — Has he no 
patrons ? or do '* Poverty's cold wind and crush- 
ing rain beat keen and heavy'' on him ? I once, 
and but once, got a glance of that noble edition 
of that noblest pastoral in the world ; and dear 
as it was, I mean, dear as to my pocket, I would 
have bought it : but I was told that it was print- 
ed and engraved for subscribers only. He is 
the o7ily artist who has hit genuine pastoral coS' 
tume. What, my dear Cunningham, is there in 
riches, that they narrow and harden the heart 
so ? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, I 
should be as generous as the day ; but as I have 
no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one 
than any other man's, I must conclude that 
wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the pos- 
sessor, at which the man, in his native poverty 
would have revolted. What has led me to this 
is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, 
and such riches as a nabob or government con- 
tractor possesses, and why they do not form a 
mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish 
unprotected merit, and the gratitude and celeb- 
rity of that merit will richly repay it. 



No. CXXXII. 

TO MRS- DUNLOP. 

Ajinan Water Foot, 22d Aug. 1792. 
Do not blame me for it. Madam — my own 
conscience, hackneyed and weatherbeaten as it 
is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- 
lies, indolence, &c. has continued to blame and 
punish me sufficiently. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and honor- 
ed friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude for 
many favors ; to esteem for much worth, and to 
the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now old ac- 
quaintance, and I hope and am sure of progres- 
sive, increasing friendship — as, for a single day, 
not to think of you — to ask the Fates what they 



are doing and about to do with my much-loved 
friend and her w-ide-scattered connexions, and to 
beg of them to be as kind to you and yours as 
they possibly can ? 

A -propos ! (though how it is a-propos, I have 
not leisure to explawi.) Do you know that I am 
almost in love with an acquaintance of yours?— 
Almost ! said I — I am in love, souse ! over head 
and ears, deep as the most unfathomable abyss 
of the boundless ocean ; but the word Love, 
owing to the intermingledoms of the good and 
the bad, the pure and the impure, in this world, 
being rather an equivocal term for expressing 
one's sentiments and sensations, I must do jus- 
tice to the sacred purity of my attachment. 
Know, then, that the heart-struck awe, the dis- 
tant humble approach, the delight we should 
have in gazing upon and listening to a Messen- 
ger of heaven, appearing in all the unspotted 
purity of his celestial home among the coarse, 
polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to 
them tidings that make their hearts swim in 
joy, and their imaginations soar in transport — 
such, so delighting and so pure, were the emo- 
tions of my soul on meeting the other day with 

Miss L — B — , your neighbor at M , Mr. B. 

with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. 
of G., passing through Dumfries a few days ago 
on their way to England, did me the honor of 
calling on me ; on which I took my horse, 
(though God knows I could ill spare the time,) 
and accompanied them fourteen or tifteen miles, 
and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas 
about nine, 1 think, when I left them ; and ri- 
ding home, I composed the following ballad, 
of which you will probably think you have a 
dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat 
of postage. You must know that there is an 
old ballad beginning with — 

"My bonnie Lizie Bailie, 
I'll rowe thee in my plaidie." 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, " unanointed, unanneal'd ;" as 
Hamlet says. — 

" O saw ye bonnie Lesley &c." 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr- 
shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
notwithstanding it has many good things in it, 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three 
people, who would be the happier the oftener 
they met together, are almost without exception 
always so placed as never to meet but once or 
twice a-year, which, considering the few years 
of a man's life, is a very great '* evil under the 
sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon 
has mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries 
of man. I hope and believe that there is a state 
of existence beyond the grave, where the wor- 
thy of this life will renew their former intimacies, 
with this endearing addition, that, *' we meet to 
part no more 1" 

# * * * 

" Tell us ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ?" 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men, but not one of them 
has ever thought fit to answer the question. "O 
that some courteous ghost would blab it out I" 



LETTERS. 



283 



but it cannot be ; you and I, my friend, must 
make the experiment by ourselves, and for our- 
selves. However, I am so convinced that an 
unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion is not 
only necessary, by making us better men, but 
also by making us happier men, that I shall 
take every care that your little godson, and ev- 
ery little creature that shall call me father, shall 
be taught ihem. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild place of the world, in the intervals of 
my labor of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. 



No. CXXXIII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, lOtk September, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology — Amid 
all my hurry of business, grinding the faces of 
the publican and the sinner on the merciless 
wheels of the Excise ; making ballads, and then 
drinking, and singing them; and, over and above 
all, the correcting the press- work of two differ- 
ent publications, still, still I might have stolen 
five minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my 
friends and fellow-creatures. I might have 
done as I do at present, snatched an hour near 
" witching time of night," and scrawled a page 
or two. I might have congratulated my friend 
on his marriage, or I might have tiianked the 
Caledonian archers for the honor they have done 
me (though to do myself justice, I intended to 
have done both in rhyme, else I had done both 
long ere now.) Well, then, here is to your 
good health ! for you must know I have set a 
nipperkin of toddy by me, just by way of spell, 
to keep away the meikle horned Deil, or any of 
his subaltern imps who may be on their nightly 
rounds. 

But what shall I write to you ? '* The voice 
said. Cry I and I said, What shall I cry ?" — O 
thou spirit I whatever thou art, or wherever thou 
makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by the 
eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary glen 
through which the herd callan maun bicker in 
his gloarain route frae the faulde I Be thou a 
brownie set, at dead of night, to thy task by 
the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, where 
the repercussions of thy iron flail half affright thy- 
self as thou performest the work of twenty of 
the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon 
thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose. Be 
thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, in the 
starless night, mixing thy laughing yell with the 
howling of the storm and the roaring of the flood 
as thou viewest the perils and miseries of man 
on the foundering horse, or in the tumbling 
boat! — Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy 
nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed 
grandeur ; or performing thy mystic rites in the 
shadow of the time-worn church, while the moon 
looks, without a cloud, on the silent ghastly 
dwellings of the dead around thee: or taking 
thy stand by the bedside of ihe villain, or the 
murderer, portraying on his dreaming fancy, 
pictures, dreadful as the horrors of unveiled hell 
and terrible as the wrath of incensed Deity ! — 
Come, thou spirit ! but not in these horrid forms: 
come with the milder, gentle, easy inspirations 



which thou breathest round the wig of a prating 
advocate, or the tete of a tea-sipping gossip, 
while their tongues run at the lighi-horse gallop 
of clish-maclaver forever and ever — come and 
assist a poor devil who is quite jaded in the at- 
tempt to share half an idea among half a hun- 
dred words ; to till up four quarto pages, while 
he has not got one single sentence of recollec- 
tion, information, or remark, worth putting pen 
to paper for. 

1 feel, I feel the presence of supernatural as- 
sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, my breast labors like the bloated Sibyl 
on her three-footed stool, and like her too, la- 
bors with Nonsense. Nonsense, auspicious 
name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of 
physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of school DIVINITY, who leaving Common 
Sense confounded at his strength of pinion, 
Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy flight ; 
and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her 
well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her 
scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theo- 
logic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. 
" On earth, Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, 
opening her jealous gates to the nineteen thou- 
sandth part of the tithe of mankind ! and below 
an inescapable and inexorable Hell, expanding 
its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of mor- 
tals I ! !'' O doctrine ! comfortable and healing 
to the weary, wounded soul of man ! Ye sons 
and daughters of affliction, ye pauvres misera- 
hies, to whom day brings no pleasure, and the 
night yields no rest, be comforted ! " 'Tisbut 
07ie to nineteen hundred thousand that your sit- 
uation will mend in this world;" so, alas! the 
experience of the poor and the needy too often af- 
firms ; and, 'tis nineteen hundred thousand to 
one, by the dogmas of ***^****^ that you will 
be damned eternally in the world to come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is 
the most nonsensical ; so enough, and more than 
enough of it. Only, by the by, will you or can 
you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sec- 
tarian turn of mind has always a tendency to 
narrow and illiberalize the heart ? They are 
orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I have known 
them merciful : but still your children of sancti- 
ty move among their fellow-creatures, with a 
nosiril-snufling putrescence, and a foot-spurning 
filth ; in short, with a conceited dignity that 
your titled * * * * or any other of your Scot- 
tish lordlings of seven centuries' standing, dis- 
play when they accidentally mix among the 
many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I re- 
member, in my plough-boy days, 1 could not 
conceive it possible that a noble lord could be a 
fool, or a godly man could be a knave. — How 
ignorant are plough-boys I — Nay, I have since 
discovered that a godly woman may be a * * * 
* * ! — But hold — Here's t'ye again — this rum 
is generous Antigua, so a very unfit menstru- 
um for scandal. 

A-propos ; How do you Uke, I mean really, 
like the married life ? Ah I my friend, matri- 
mony is quite a different thing from what your 
love-sick youths and sighing girls take it to be. 
But marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, 
and I shall never quarrel with any of his institu- 
tions. I am a husband of older standing than 
you, and shall give you my ideas of the conju- 
gal state {en passant, you know I am no Latin- 



284 



LETTERS 



ist ; is not conjugal derived from jtigum, a 
yoke ?) Well, then the scale of good wifeship I 
divide into ten parts ; — Good-nature, four ; Good 
Sense, two ; Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. 
a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, grace- 
ful carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but 
that is soon spoiled you know,) all these, one ; 
as for the other qualities belonging to, or attend- 
ing on a wife, such as Fortune, Connexions, 
Education, (I mean education extraordinary,) 
Family Blood, (fcc, divide the two remaining 
degrees among them as you please ; only re- 
member that all these minor properties must be 
expressed by fractions, for there is not anyone 
of them in the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dig- 
nity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — 

how I lately met with Miss L B , the 

most beautiful, elegant woman in the world — 
how I accompanied her and her father's family 
fifteen miles on their journey out of pure devo- 
tion, to admire the loveliness of the works of 
God, in such an unequalled display of them — 
how, in galloping home at night, I made a ballad 
on her, of which these two stanzas made a part — 

Thou, bonnie L , art a queen, 

Thy subjects we befortj thee ; 
Thou, bonnie L , art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Deil he could na scathe 

Whatever wad belang thee ? 
He'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, " 1 canna vvrang thee 1" 

— Behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imaginations, and shall be read 
by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved 
spouse, my other dear friend, at a more con- 
venient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before designated 
ioso?7t-companion, be given the precious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the be- 
nignest influences of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, forever and ever, Amen ! 



No. CXXXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Dumfries, 2ith September, 1792. 

I have this moment, my dear Madam, yours 
of the twenty-third. All your other kind re- 
proaches, your news, &c. are out of my head 
when 1 read and think on Mrs. H— 's situa- 
tion. Good God ! a heart-wounded, helpless 
young woman — in a strange foreign land, and 
that land convulsed with every horror that can 
harrow the human feelings — sick— looking, long- 
ing for a comforter, but finding none — a moth- 
er's feelings too — but it is too much ; He who 
wounded (He only can) may He heal I* 

T wish the farmer great joy of his new acqui- 
sition to his family, * * * * I cannot say 
that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. 'Tis, 
as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, 
n cursed life ! As to a laird farming his own 
property ; sowing his own corn in hope ; and 

* This much lamented lady was gone to the south 
of France with her infant son, where she died soon 
after. 



reaping it in spite of brittle weather, in gladness, 
knowing that none can say unto him, "what 
dost thou!''— fattening his herds: shearing his 
flocks ; rejoicing at Christmas : and begetting 
sons and daughters, until he be the venerated, 
gray-haired leader of a little tribe — 'Tis a heav- 
enly life ! — But devil take the life of reaping the 
fruits that another must eat ! 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as 
to seeing me, when f make my Ayrshire visit, 

I cannot leave Mrs. B until her nine months' 

race is run, which may perhaps be in three or 
four weeks. She, too, seems determined to 
make me the patriarchal leader of a band. 
However, if Heaven will be so obliging as to 
let me have them in proportion of three boys to 
one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. I 
hope, if I arn spared with them, to show a set of 
boys that will do honor to my cares and name ; 
but I am not equal to the task of rearing girls. 
Besides, I am too poor: a girl should always 
have a fortune — A-propos ; your little godson 
is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, 
though two years younger, has completely mas- 
tered his brother. Robert is indeed the mildest, 
gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a most 
surprising memory, and is quite the pride of his 
schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart : You can ex- 
cuse it. God bless you and yours ! 



No. CXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Supposed to have been written on the Death of 
Mrs. H , her daughter. 

I had been from home, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other day. What 
shall I say to comfort you, my much-valued, 
much afflicted friend ! I can but grieve with you; 
consolation I have none to offer, except that 
which religion holds out to the children of afflic- 
tion — Childre7i of Affliction ! — how just the ex- 
pression ! and like every other family, they 
have matters among them, which they hear, see 
and feel in a serious all-important manner, of 
which the world has not, nor cares to have, any 
idea. The world looks indifferently on, makes 
the passing remark, and proceeds to the next 
novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many 
years ? What is it but to drag existence until 
our joys gradually expire, and leave us in a 
night of misery ; like the gloom which blots 
out the stars one by one, from the face of night, 
and leaves us without a ray of comfort in the 
howling waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
shall soon hear from me again. 



No. CXXXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 
I shall be in Ayrshire, I think next week; 
and, if at all possible, I shall certainly, my 
much- esteemed friend, have the pleasure of vis- 
iting at Dunlop-House. 



LETTERS. 



285 



Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in 
this world, that we have reason to congratulate 
ourselves on accessions of happiness ! I have not 
passed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary 
of a newspaper, that I do not see some names 
that I have known, and which I and other ac- 
quaintances, little thought to meet with there so 
soon. Every other instance of the mortality of 
our kind makes us cast an anxious look into 
the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder 
with apprehension for our own fate. But of 
how different an importance are the lives of dif- 
ferent individuals ? Nay, of what importance 
is one period of the same life more than another. 
A few years ago I could have lain down in the 
dust, " careless of the voice of the morning :" 
and now not a few, and these most helpless in- 
dividuals, would, on losing me and my exer- 
tions, lose both their " staff and shield." By 
the way, these helpless ones have lately got an 

addition, Mrs. B having given me a fine 

girl since 1 wrote you. There is a charming 
passage in Thomson's Edward and Eleafiora, — 

" The valiant in himself, what can he suffer 1 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" Sec. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall 
give you another from the same piece, peculiar- 
ly, alas I too peculiarly apposite, my dear Mad- 
am, to your present frame of mind : 

*' Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main 1 the tempest comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud ; when from ihe helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting— Heavens ! if privileged from trial 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

I do not remember to have heard you men- 
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favorite 
quotations, and store them in my mind as ready 
armor, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle 
of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a 
very favorite one, from his Alfred : 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

And offices of life ; to life itself. 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you 
formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart 
I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical style of ex- 
pression, is much more bounded than that of 
the imagination ; so the notes of the former are 
extremely apt to run into one another; but in 
return for the paucity of its compass, its few 
notes are much more sweet. I must still 
give you another quotation, which I am almost 
sure I have given you before, but I cannot re- 
sist the temptation. The subject is religion — 
speaking of its importance to mankind, the au- 
thor says, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 

'Tis this that giMs the horror of our night. 

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few. 

When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 

Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 

Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this 
country here, have many alarms of the reform- 



ing., or rather the republican spirit of your part 
of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in 
commotion ourselves. For me, I am a place- 
man you know ; a very humble one indeed, 
Heaven knows, but still so much so as to gag 
me. What my private sentiments are, you will 
find out without an interpreter. 



I have taken up the subject in another view, 
and the other day, for a pretty Ac.ress's bene- 
fit-night, I wrote an Address, which I will give 
on the other page, called The Eights of IVo- 
ma7i* 

I shall have the honor of receiving your criti- 
cisms in person at Dunlop. 



No. CXXXVII. 



TO MISS B*****, OF YORK. 

2lst March, 1792. 
Madam, — 

Among many things for which I envy those 
hale long-lived old fellows before the flood, is 
this in particular, that when they met with any 
body after their own heart, they had a charming 
long prospect of many, many happy meetings 
with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when you, now and then, in 
the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there 
are all the probabilities against you, that you 
will never meet with that valued character more. 
On the other hand, brief as this miserable being 
is, it is none of the least of the miseries belong- 
ing to it, that if there is any miscreant whom 
you hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill 
run of the chances shall be so against you, that 
in the overtakings, turnings, and jostlingsof life, 
pop, at some unlucky corner eternally comes 
the wretch upon you, and will not allow your 
indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As 
I am a sturdy believer in the powers of darkness, 
I take these to be the doings of that old author 
of mischief, the devil. It is well known that he 
has some kind of short-hand way of taking down 
our thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is 
perfectly acquainted with my sentiments re- 
specting Miss B — ; how much I admired her 
abilities, and valued her worth, and how very 
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. 
For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must 
entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of 
meeting with you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a 

packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
enclosed sonnet, though to tell you the real truth, 
the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have 
the opportunity of declaring with how much re- 
spectful esteem I have the honor to be, <!tc. 



No. CXXXVIII. 
TO MISS C**»*. 

Au-gust, 1793. 
Madam, — 

Some rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented my doing myself the honor of a second 
visit to Arbeigland, as I was so hospitably invi- 
,* See Poems, p. 62. 



286 



LETTERS. 



ted, and so positively meant to have done. — 
However, I still hope to have that pleasure be- 
fore the busy months of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind of return for the pleasure I have received in 
perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in the 
possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one 
with an old song, is a proverb, whose force, 
you Madam, I know will not allow. What is 
said of illustrious descent is, I believe equally 
true of a talent for poetry, none ever depised it 
who had pretensions to it. The fates and char- 
acters of the rhytning tribe often employ my 
thoughts when I am disposed to be melanchoiy. 
There is not among all tlie martyrologies that 
ever were penned, so rueful a narrative as the 
lives of the poets. — In the comparative view of 
wretches, the criterion is not what they are 
doomed to suffer, but how they are formed to 
bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a 
stronger imagination and a more delicate sensi- 
bility, which between them will ever engender 
a more ungovernable set of passions than are the 
usual lot of man, implant in him an irresistible 
impulse to some idle vagary, such as arranging 
wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the 
grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, 
watv hing the frisks of the little minnows, in the 
sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of 
butterflies — in short, send him adrift after some 
pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from 
the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a 
keener relish than any man living for the pleas- 
ures that lucre can purchase : lastly, fill up the 
measure of his woes by bestowing on him a 
spurning sense of his own dignity, and you have 
created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet. 
To you, Madam, I need not recount the fairy 
pleasures the muse bestows to counterbalance 
this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is 
like bewitching woman ; she has in all ages been 
accused of misleading mankind from the coun- 
cils of wisdom and the paths of prudence, in- 
volving them in difficulties, baiting them with 
poverty, branding them with infamy, and plun- 
ging them in the whirling vortex of ruin ; yet 
where is the man but must own that all our 
happiness on earth is not worthy the name — 
that even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of 
paradisaical bliss is but the glitter of a northern 
sun rising over a frozen region, compared with 
the many pleasures, the nameless raptures 
that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart 
of Man ! 



No. CXXXIX. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

December, 1793. 

Sir,— 

It is said we take greatest liberties with our 
greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high 
compliment in the manner in which I am going 
to apply the remark. I have owed you money 
longer than ever I owed to any man. Here is 
Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; and 
now, I don't owe a shilling to man — or woman 
either. But for these damned dirty, dog's-ear- 
ed little pages,* I had done myself the honor to 
have waited on you long ago. Independent of 
* Scottish Bank Notes. 



the obligations your hospitality has laid me un 
der ; the consciousness of your superiority in 
the rank of man and gentleman, of itself was 
fully as much as I could ever make head against; 
but to owe you money too, was more than I 
could face. 

1 think I once mentioned something of a col- 
lection of Scots songs I have some years been 
making ; I send you a perusal of what I have 
got together. I could not conveniently spare 
them above five or six days, and five or six 
glances of them will probably more than suffice 
you. A very few of them are my own. When 
you are tired of them, please leave them with 
Mr. Clintof the King's Arms. There is not 
another copy of the collection in the world; and 
I should be sorry that any unfortunate negU- 
gence should deprive me of what has cost me a 
good deal of pains. 



No. CXL. 



TO MRS. R****», 

Who was to bespeak a Play one Evening at the 
Dumfries Theatre. 

I am thinking to send my Address to some 
periodical publication, but it has not got your 
sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, 
my dear Madam, to give us, The Wonder, a 
Woman keeps a Secret ! to which please add, 
The Spoilt Child — you will highly oblige me 
by so doing. 

Ah I what an enviable creature you are ! There 
now, this cursed gloomy bluedevil day, you are 
going to a party of choice spirits — 

" To play the (shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd hefore. 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-painting humor, grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that weep, 
and pity your melancholy friend. 



No. CXLI. 



TO 



A LADY IN FAVOR OF A 
PLAYER'S BENEFIT. 



Madam, — 

You were so very good as to promise me to 
honor my friend with your presence on his ben- 
efit-night. That night is fixed for Friday first I 
the play a most interesting one ! The Way to 
Keep Him. I have the pleasure to know Mr. G. 
well. His merit as an actor is generally ac- 
knowledged. He has genius and worth, which 
would do honor to patronage ; he is a poor and 
modest man : claims which from their very si 
lence have the more forcible power on the gen- 
erous heart. Alas, for pity ! that from the in- 
dolence of those who have the good things of 
this life in their gift, too often does brazen-fron- 
ted importunity snatch that boon, the rightful 
due of retiring, humble want ! Of all the qual- 



LETTERS. 



287 



ilies we assign to the author and director of Na- 
ture, by far the most enviable is — lo be able "to 
wipe away all tears from all eyes." O what 
insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however 
chance may have loaded them with wealth, who 
go to their graves, to their magnificent vmnso- 
leums, with hardly the consciousness of having 
made one poor honest heart happy 1 

But I crave your pardon, Madam, 1 came to 
beg, not to preach. 



No. CXLir. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 



TO MR 



1794. 



I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests, in a letter which Mr. 
S*** showed me. At present, my situation in 
life must be in a great measure stationary, at 
east for two or thee years. The statement is 
this — I am on the supervisors' list ; and as we 
come on there by precedency, in two or three 
years I shall be at the head of that list, and be 
appointed of course — then a Friend might be of 
service to me in getting me into a place of the 
kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's 
income varies from about a hundred and twenty 
to two hundred a-year : but the business is an 
incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a com- 
plete bar to every species of literary pursuit. The 
moment I am appointed supervisor in the com- 
mon routine, I may be nominated on the Collec- 
tor's list; and this is always a business purely 
of political patronage. A coUectorship varies 
much, from better than two hundred a-year to 
near a thousand. They also come forward by 
precedency on the list, and have besides a hand- 
some income, a life of complete leisure. A life 
of literary leisure, with a decent competence, 
is the summit of my wishes. It would be the 
prudish affectation of silly pride in me to say 
that I do not need, or would not be indebted to 
a political friend ; at the same time. Sir, I 
by no means lay my aflfairs before you thus to 
hook my dependent situation on your benevo- 
lence. If, in my progress in life, an opening 
should occur where the good offices of a gen- 
tleman of your public character and political 
consequence might bring me forward, I will pe- 
tition your goodness with the same frankness 
and sincerity as I now do myself the honor to 
subscribe myself, &c. 



NO. CXLIII. 
TO MRS. R****. 
Dear Madam, — 

I MEANT to have called on you yesternight ; 
but as I edged up to your box-door, the first 
object which greeted my view was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another drag- 
on, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the con- 
ditions and capitulations you so obligingly oflfer, 
I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic 
phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday, 
when we may arrange the business of the visit. 
* * * * 

Among the profusion of idle compliments, 
which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, in- 



cessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, how 
far exalted above such adoration — permit me, 
were it but for rarity's sake, to pay you tha 
honest tribute of a warm heart and an indepen- 
dent mind ; and to assure you liiat I am, thou 
most amiable, and most accomplished of thy 
sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fer- 
vent regard, thine, &.c. 



No. CXLIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I WILL wait on you. my ever-valued friend, 
but whether in the morning I am not sure. Suri- 
day closes a period of our cursed revenue busi- 
ness, and may probably keep me employed with 
my pen until noon. Fme employment for a 
poet's pen ! There is a species of the human 
genus that I call the gin-lwrse daiat : what en- 
viable dogs they are! Round, and round, and 
round they go — Mundell's ox, that drives his 
cotton-mill, is their exact prototype — without an 
idea or wish beyond their circle ; fat, sleek, stu- 
pid, patient, quiet, and contented : while here I 

sit, altogether Novemberish, a d meUwge 

of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of 
the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other 
to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and 
fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch 
caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly 
thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that 
it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when 
he foretold — '" And behold, on whatsoever this 
man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper ." If 
my resentment is awakened, if is sure to be 
where it dare not squeak ; and if— 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent 
visitors of R. B. 



No. CXLV. 
TO THE SAME. 

I HAVE this moment got the song from S***, 
and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a 
good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I 
lend him anything again. 

I have sent you Wetter, truly happy to have 
any, the smallest opportunity of obliging you. 

'Tis true. Madam, I saw you once since I 

was at W ; and that once froze the very 

life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me 
was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his 
judge, about to pronounce the sentence of death, 
on him, could only have envied my feelings and 
situation. But I hate the theme, and never 
more shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay 
Mrs. a higher tribute of esteem, and appre- 
ciate her amiable worth more truly, than any 
man whom I have seen approach her. 



No. CLXVr. 

TO THE SAME. 

T HAVE often told you, my dear friend, that 
you had a spice of caprice in your composition, 
and you have as often disavowed it: even, per- 



288 



LETTERS. 



haps, while your opinions were, at the moment, 
irrefragably proving it. Could anything es- 
trange me from a triend such as you ? — No ! 
To-morrow I shall have the honor of waiting 
on you. 

Farewell thou first of friends, and most ac- 
complished of women : even whh all thy Utile 
caprices ! 



No. CXLVII. 
TO THE SAME. 
Madam, 

I RETURN your common-place book ; I have 
perused it with much pleasure, and would have 
continued my criticisms ; but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
must lose their value. 

If it is true that "offences come only from 
the heart,'' before you I am guiltless. To ad- 
mire, esteem, and prize you, as the most ac- 
compUshed of women, and the first of friends — 
if these are crimes, I am the most offending 
thing aUve. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind com- 
placency of friendly confidence, now to find 
cold neglect and contemptuous scorn — is a 
wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, how- 
ever, some kind of miserable good luck, that 
while de haut-en-has rigor may depress an unof- 
fending wretch to the ground, it has a tenden- 
cy to rouse a stubborn something in his bosom, 
which, though it cannot heal the wounds of his 
soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poig- 
nancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abili- 
ties ; the most sincere esteem and ardent regard 
for your gentle heart and amiable manners ; 
and the most fervent wish and prayer for your 
welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honor to 
be. Madam, your most devoted, humble ser- 
vant. 



No. CXLVIII. 

TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. 

You know that, among other high dignities, 
you have the honor to be my supreme court of 
critical judicature, from which there is no appeal. 
I enclose you a song which I composed since I 
eaw you, and I am going to give you the histo- 
ry of it. Do you know, that among much that 
I admire in the characters and manners of those 
great folks whom I have now the honor to call 
my acquaintances, the 0***** family, there is 
nothing charms me more than Mr. O's. uncon- 
cealable attachment to that incomparable wo- 
man. Did you ever, my dear Syme, meet with 
a man who owed more to the Divine Giver of all 
good things than Mr. O. A fine fortune, a pleas- 
ing exterior, self-evident amiable dispositions, 
and an ingenuous upright mind, and that Inform- 
ed too, much beyond the usual run of young 
follows of his rank and fortune : and to all this, 
such a woman ! — but of her I shall say noth- 
ing at all, in despair of saying anything ad- 
equate. In my song, 1 have endeavored to do 
justice to what would be his feelings, on seeing, 
in the scene I have drawn, the habitation of his 



Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with my 
performance, I in my first fervor, thought of 

sending it to Mrs. O. ; but on second 

thoughts, perhaps what I offer as honest incense 
of genuine respect, might, from the well-known 
character of poverty and poetry, be construed 
into some modification or other of that servility 
which my soul abhors.* 



No. CXLIX. 

TO MISS 

Madam, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity 
could have made me trouble you with this let- 
ter. Except my ardent and just esteem for 
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment 
arising in my breast, as I put pen to paper to 
you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with 
the friend of my soul and his amiable connex- 
ions ! the wrench at my heart to think that he 
is gone, forever gone from me, never more to 
meet in the wanderings of a weary world ! and 
the cutting reflection of all that I had most un- 
fortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the 
confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its 
flight ! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordina- 
ry anguish. However, you also may be offen- 
ded with some imputed improprieties of mine ; 
sensibility you know I possess, and sincerity 
none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been 
raised against me, is not the business of this let- 
ter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to 
wage. The powers of positive vice I can in 
some degree calculate, and against direct ma- 
levolence I can be on my guard ; but who can 
estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward 
off the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly? 

I have a favor to request of you. Madam ; 
and of your sister Mrs. — , through your means. 
You know that, at the wish of my late friend, 
I made a collection of all my trifles in verse 
which I had ever written. There are many of 
them local, some of them puerile and silly, and 
all of them, unfit for the public eye. As I have 
some little fame at stake, a fame that I trust 
may five when the hate of those " who watch 
for my halting," and the contumelious sneer of 
those whom accident has made my superiors, 
will, with themselves, be gone to the regions 
of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the fate of 

those manuscripts. Will Mrs. have the 

goodness to destroy them, or return them to 
me .? Asa pledge of friendship they were be- 
stowed ; and that circumstance indeed was all 
their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit 
they no longer possess; and I hope that Mrs. 

's goodness, which I well know, and ever 

will revere, will not refuse th's favor to a man 
whom she once held in some degree of e.stima- 
tion. 

With the sincerest esteem. I have the honor 
to be, Madam, &c. 

* The song enclosed was that, given in Poems, 
page 88, beginning 



teat ye who's in yon town 



LETTERS. 



289 



No. CL. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

25th Fibruanj, 1794. 
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest loasoul tossed 
on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star 
to guide her course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give 
to a frame, tremblingly alive to the tortures of 
suspense, the stability and hardihood of the 
rock that braves the blast ? If thou canst not 
do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb 
me in my miseries with thy inquiries after me ? 



For these two months, I have not been able 
to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were 
ab origi7ie, blasted with a deep incurable taint 
of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. 
Of late, a number of domestic vexations, and 
some pecuniary share in the ruin of these * * * 
** times; losses which, though trifling, were 
yet what 1 could ill bear, have so irritated me, 
that my feelings at times could only be envied 
by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence 
that dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation ? 
I have exhausted in reflection every topic of 
comfort. A heart at ease would have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings, 
but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot 
preaching the Gospel : he might melt and 
mould the hearts of those around him, but his 
own kept its native incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us 
up, amid the wreck ol misfortune and misery. 
The ONE is composed of the diflferent modiflca- 
tions of a certain noble, stubborn something in 
man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, 
magnanimity. The other is made up of those 
feelings and sentiments, which, however the 
sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfig- 
ure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and 
component parts of the human soul : those 
seiises of the mind, if I may be allowed the ex- 
pression, which connect us with, and link us 
to, those awful obscure realities — an all-power- 
ful, and equally beneficent God ; and a world to 
come, beyond death and the grave. The first 
gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope 
beams on the field : — the last pours the balm of 
comfort into the wounds which time can never 
cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of re- 
ligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as 
the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undis- 
cerning many ; or at most as an uncertain obscu- 
rity, which mankind can never know anything 
of, and with which they are fools if they give 
themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel 
with a man for his irreligion, any more than I 
would for his want of a musical ear. I would 
regret that he was shut out from what, to me 
and to others, were such superlative sources of 
enjoyment. Jt is in this point of view, and for 
this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind 
of every child of mine with religion. If my 
son should happen to be a man of feeling, sen- 
timent, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his 
enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this 

19 



sweet little fellow, who is just now running 
about my desk, will be a man of melting, ar- 
dent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- 
lighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. 
Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet 
evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy 
the growing luxuriance of the spring ! himseli 
the while in the blooming youth of life. He 
looks abroad on all nature, and through na- 
ture up to nature's God. His soul, by swift de- 
lighting degrees, is rapt above this sublunary 
sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and 
bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of 
Thomson, 

" Thfse, as thpy chanpe, Almiglity Father, these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real 
delights : and I ask what delights among the 
sons of men are superior, not to say equal, 
to them ? And they have this precious, vast 
addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for 
her own ; and lays hold on them to bring her- 
self into the presence of a witnessing, judging, 
and approving God. 



No. CLI. 

TO MRS.****. 

Supposes himself to be writing from the Dead to 

the Living. 
Madam, 

I dare say this is the first epistle you ever re- 
ceived from this nether world. 1 write you 
from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my 
leaving your earth I do not exactly know, as I 
took my departure in the heat of a fever of in- 
toxication, contracted at your too hospitable 
mansion ; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly 
tried and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine for the space of 
ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
nine days, and all on account of the impropriety 
of my conduct yesternight under your roof. 
Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with 
my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn ; while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think 
is Recollection, with a whip of scorpions, for- 
bids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps 
anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I 
could in any measure be reinstated in the good 
opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last 
night so much injured, I think it would be an 
alleviation to my torments. For this reason I 
trouble you with this letter. To the men of 
the company I will make no apology. Your 
husband, who insisted on my drinking more 
than I chose, has no right to blame me ; and 
the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. 
But to you. Madam, I have much to apologize. 
Your good opinion I valued as one of the great- 
est acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was 
truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss 

I , too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and 

unassuming manners — do make, on my part, a 



290 



LETTERS. 



miserable d d wretch's best apology to her. 

A Mrs. G , a charming woman, did me the 

honor to be prejudiced in my favor ; — this makes 
me hope that 1 have not outraged her beyond 
all forgiveness. To all the other ladies please 
present my humblest contrition for my conduct, 
and my petition for their gracious pardon. O, 
all ye powers of decency and decorum I whis- 
per to them, that my errors, though great, were 
involuntary — that an intoxicated man is the vil- 
est of beasts — that it was not my nature to be 
brutal to any one — that to be rude to a woman, 
when in my senses, was impossible with me 
— but— 



Regret ! Remorse I Shame I ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
of, Madam, 

Your humble slave. 



No. CLII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5tk December, 1795. 
My Dear Friend, — 

As I am in a complete Decemberish humor, 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of 
Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl 
out a heavy letter with a number of heavier 
apologies for my late silence. Only one I shall 
mention, because I know you will sympathize 
in it : these four months, a sweet little girl, my 
youngest child, has been so ill, that every day a 
week or less, threatened to terminate her exist- 
ence. There had much need be many pleas- 
ures annexed to the states of husband and fath- 
er, for God knows, they have many peculiar 
cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious 
sleepless hours, these ties frequently give me. 
I see a train of helpless little folks ; me and my 
exertions all their stay ; and on what a brittle 
thread does the life ojf man hang ! If I am nipt 
off at the command of Fate, even in all the vig- 
or of manhood as I am — such things happen ev- 
ery day — gracious God ! what would become 
of my little flock! 'Tis here that 1 envy your peo- 
ple of fortune I A father on his deathbed, tak- 
ing an everlasting leave of his children, has in- 
deed wo enough ; but the man of competent 
fortune leaves his sons and daughters indepen- 
dency and friends ; whlie I — but I shall run dis- 
tracted if I think any longer on the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I 
shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

" O that I had ne'er been married, 

1 would never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns. 

They cry crowdie : evermair. 
Crowdie ! ance ! crowdie twice ; 

Crowdie I three times in a day ; 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away." 



December 2ith. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here this sea- 
Son ; only as all other business has, it experien- 



ces a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the country, wa7it of cash. I men- 
tion our theatre merely to lug in an occasional 
Address which I wrote for the benefit night of 
one of the actresses, and which is as follows.* 

25th, Christmas Morning. 

This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of 
wishes ; accept mine — so heaven hear me as 
they are sincere I that blessings may attend 
your steps, and affliction know you not ! in the 
charming words of my favorite author. The 
Man of Feelms, " May the Great Spirit bear 
up the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the 
arrow that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like 
Cowper? Is not the Task di glorious poem? 
The religion of the Tush, bating a few scraps 
of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God 
and Nature ; the religion that exalts, that enno« 
bles man. Were not you to send me your Ze- 
luco, in return for mine ? Tell me how you 
like my marks and notes through the book. I 
would not give a farthing lor a book, unless 
I were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters. I mean those which I first 
sketched in a rough draught, and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old 
musty papers, which, from time to time, I had 
parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth 
preserving, and which yet at the same time I 
did not care to destroy ; I discovered many of 
these rude sketches, and have vvriiten and am 
writing them out, in a bound MS. for my 
friend's library. As I wrote always to you the 
rhapsody of the moment, 1 cannot find a single 
scroll to you, except one, about the commence- 
ment of our acquaintance. If there were any 
possible conveyance, I would send you a peru- 
sal of my book. 



No. CLIII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 
Dumfries, 20th December, 1795. 

I have been prodigiously disappointed in this 
London journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
in the country, and did not return until too late 
to answer your letter; in the next place, I 
thought you would certainly take this route ; 
and now I know not what is become of you, 
or whether this may reach you at all. God 
grant that it may find you and yours in prosper- 
mg health and good spirits I Do let me hear 
from you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Cap- 
tain Miller, I shall every leisure hour, take up 
the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, 
prose or poesy, sermon or song. In this last 
article I have abounded of late. I have often 
mentioned to you a superb publication of Scot- 
tish songs which is making its appearance in 
your great metropolis, and where I have the 
honor to preside over the Scottish verse, as no 
less a personage than Peter Pindar does over 
the English. 1 wrote the following for a favor- 
ite air. See the song e7ititled, Lord Gregory, 
Poems, p. 65. 
•The Address is given in p. 63, of the Poems. 



LETTERS. 



291 



December Q9th. 
Since 1 began this letter, I have been appoin- 
ted to act in the capacity of supervisor here : 
and I assure you, what with the load of busi- 
ness, and what with that business being new to 
me, I could scarcely have commanded ten min- 
utes to have spoken to you, had you been in 
town, much less to have written you an epis- 
tle. This appointment is only temporary, and 
during the illness of the present incumbent ; 
but 1 look forward to an early period when I 
shall be appointed in full form ; a consumma- 
tion devoutly to be wished ! My political sina 
seem to be forgiven me. 



This is the season (New-year's day is now 
my date) of wishing ; and mine are most fer- 
vently offered up for you I May life to you be 
a positive blessing while it lasts, for your own 
sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, 
is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake 
of the rest of your friends ! What a transient 
business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but 
t'other day I was a young man ; and I already 
begin to leel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints 
of old age coming fast o'er my frame. With 
all my follies of youth, and I fear, a few vices 
of manhood, still I congratulate myself on hav- 
ing had, in early days, religion strongly im- 
pressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to 
any one as to which sect he belongs to, or what 
creed he believes ; but I look on the man, 
who is firmly persuaded of infinite Wisdom 
and Goodness superintending and directing ev- 
ery circumstance that can happen in his lot — I 
felicitate such a man as having a solid founda- 
tion for his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and 
sure stay in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and 
distress : and a never failing anchor of hope, 
when he looks beyond the grave. 

January \2th. 

You will have seen our worthy and ingen- 
ious friend the Doctor, long ere this. I hope 
he is well, and beg to be remembered to him. 
I have just been reading over again, T dare say 
for the hundredth and fiftieth time, his View of 
Society a7id Manners ; and still I read it with 
delight. His humor is perfectly original — it is 
neither the humor of Addison, nor Swift, nor 
Sterne, nor of any body but Doctor Moore. By 
the by, you have deprived me of Zeluco ; re- 
member that, when you are disposed to rake up 
the sins of my neglect from among the ashes of 
my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quo- 
ting me in his last publication.* 



No. CLIV. 
TO MRS. R.****. 

2Qth January, 1796. 
I cannot express my gratitude to you for al- 
lowing me a longer perusal of A?iacharsis. In 
fact I never met with a book that bewitched me 
80 much ; and I, as a member of the library, 
* Edward. 



must warmly feel the obligation you have laid 
us under. Indeed to me, the obligation is 
stronger than to any other individual of our so- 
ciety ; as Anacharsis is an indispensable desid- 
eratum to a son of the Muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's 
card, is I think, flown from me forever. I have 
not been able to leave my bed to-day till about 
an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky adver- 
tisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I 
am ill able to go in quest of hirn. 

The Muses have not quite forsaken me. The 
following detached stanzas I intend to inter- 
weave in some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 



No. CLV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

3\st January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two 
packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I 
have committed against so highly valued a 
friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! 
Madam ! ill can I afford, at this time, to be de- 
prived of any of the small remnant of my pleas- 
ures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of 
affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only 
daughter and darling child, and that at a dis- 
tance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my 
power to pay the last duties to her. I had 
scarcely begun to recover from that shock, 
when I became myself the victim of a most se- 
vere rheumatic fever, and long the die spun 
doubtful ; until after many weeks of a sick bed, 
it seems to have turned up life, and I am begin- 
ning to crawl across my room, and once in- 
deed have been before my own door in the 
street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray. 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 

And shuts, forever shuts, life's doubtful day ! 



No. CLVI. 

TO MRS. R**»*. 

Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day 
Assembly on that day to show his loyalty. 

4th June, 1796. 
I am in such miserable health as to be utterly 
incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. 
Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet eve- 
ry face with a greeting, like that of Balak to 
Balaam — " Come, curse me Jacob; and come, 
defy me Israel!" So say I — come curse me 
that east wind : and come, defy me the north ! 
Would you have me in such circumstances, 
copy you out a love song ? 

* * * * 

I may, perhaps, see you on Saturday, but I 
will not be at the ball. Why should I ! "Man 
delights not me. nor woman either?" Can 
you supply me with the song. Let us all be un- 
happy together — do if you can, and oblige le 
pauvre miserable. R. B. 



292 



LETTERS. 



No. CLVII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
Brow, Sea-bathi7ig Quarters, 7th July, 1796. 

My Dear Cunningham, 

I received yours here this moment, and am 
indeed highly flattered with the approbation of 
the hterary circle you mention; a literary 
circle, inferior to none in the two kingdoms. 
Alas ! my. friend, I fear the voice of the 
bard will soon be heard among you no 
more ? For these eight or ten months I have 
been ailing, sometimes bedfast, and sometimes 
not ; but these last three months, I have been 
tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, 
which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. 
You actually would not know me if you saw 
me. Pale, emaciated, and so feeble as occa- 
sionally to need help from my chair ! my spirits 
fled! fled! — but I can no more on the subject 
— only the medical folks tell me that my last 
and only chance is bathing, and country quar- 
ters, and riding. The deuce of the matter is 
this; when an exciseman is off" duty, his 
salary is reduced to thirty-five pounds instead 
of fifty pounds. What way, in the name of 
thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse 
in country quarters — with a wife and five child- 
ren at home, on thirty-five pounds ? I mention 
this, because I had intended to beg your utmost 
interest, and that of all the friends you can 
muster, to move our Commissioners of Excise 
to grant me the full salary — 1 dare say you 
know them all personally. If they do not grant 
it me, I must lay my account with an exit truly 
en poete, if I die not of disease, I must perish 
with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
when I will send it to you. A-propos to being 
at home, Mrs. Burns threatens in a week or 
two to add one more to my paternal charge, 
which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be 
introduced to the world by the respectable des- 
ignation of Alexander Cunningham Burns. 
My last was James Glencairn, so you can have 
no objection to the company of nobility. Fare- 
well! 



No. CLVIII. 

TO MRS. BURNS. 

Brow, Thursday. 
My Dearest Love, 

I delayed writing until I could tell you what 
efiect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It 
would be injustice to deny that it has eased my 
pains, and I think, has strengthened me ; but 
my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh 
nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and milk are 
the only things I can taste. I am very happy to 
hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all 
well. My very best and kindest compliments 
to her, and to all the children. I will see you 
on Sunday. Your affectionate husband. 

R. B. 

No. CLIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Brow, 12th July, 1796. 

Madam, 

I have written you so often without receiving 
any answer, that I would not trouble you again, 
but for the circumstances in which I am. An 
illness which has long hung about me, in all 
probability will speedily send me beyond that 
bourn whence no traveler returns. Your friend- 
ship, with which for many years you honored 
me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your 
conversation, and especially your correspon- 
dence, were at once highly entertaining and in- 
structive. With what pleasure did I use to 
break up the seal ! The remembrance yet 
adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating 
heart. Farewell ! ! ! * R. B. 

* The above is supposed to be the last production 
of Robert Burns, who died on the 21si of the month, 
nine days afterwards. He had, however, the pleas- 
ure of receiving a satisfactory explanation of his 
friend's silence, and an assurance of the continuance 
of her friendship to his widow and children ; an 
assurance that has been amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her letters 
to him were destroyed by our Bard about the time 
that this last was written. He did not foresee that 
his own letters to her were to appear in print, nor 
conceive the disappointment that will be felt, that a 
few of this excellent lady's have not served to en- 
rich and adorn the collection. E. 



CORRESPONDENCE 



WITH 



ME. GEORGE THOMSON 



PREFACE . 



The remaining part of this Volume, consists principally of the Correspondence between Mr. 
Burns and Mr. Thompson, on the subject of the beautiful Work projected and executed by the 
latter, the nature of which is explained in the first number of the following series.* The under- 
taking of Mr. Thomson, is one in which the Public may be congratulated in various points of 
view ; not merely as having collected the finest of the Scottish songs and airs of past times, but 
as having given occasion to a number of original songs of our Bard, which equal or surpass the 
former efforts of the pastoral muses of Scotland, and which, if we mistake not, may be safely 
compared with the lyric poetry of any age or country. The letters of Mr. Burns to Mr, Thom- 
son include the songs he presented to him, some of which appear in different stages of their pro- 
gress; and these letters will be found to exhibit occasionally his notions of song-writing, and his 
opinions on various subjects of taste and criticism. These opinions, it will be observed, were 
called forth by the observations of his correspondent, Mr. Thomson ; and without the letters of this 
gentleman, those of Burns would have been often unintelligible. He has therefore yielded to the 
earnest request of the Trustees of the family of the poet, to suffer them to appear in their natu- 
ral order ; and, independently of the illustration they give to the letters of our Bard, it is not to 
be doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure them a reception from the public, far beyond 
what Mr. Thomson's modesty would permit him to suppose. The whole of this correspondence was 
arranged for the press by Mr. Thomson, and has been printed with little addition or variation. 

To avoid increasing the bulk of the work unnecessarily, we have in general referred the rea- 
der for the Song to the page in the Poems where it occurs ; and have given the verses entire, 
only when they differ in some respects from the adopted set. 

*This work is entitled, " A Select Collection of original Scottish Airs for the Voice : to which are added 
Introductory and concluding Symphonies and Accompaniments for the Piano Forte and Violin, by Pleyel 
and zeluch : with select and characteristic Verses, by the most admired Scottish Poets," &c. 



294 



LETTERS 



No. I. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



Sir, 



Edinburgh, September, 1792. 



For some years past, I have with a friend or 
two, employed many leisure hours in selecting 
and collating the most favorite of our national 
melodies lor publication. We have engaged 
Pleyel, the most agreeable composer living, to 
put accompaniments to these, and also to com- 
pose an instrumental prelude and conclusion to 
each air, the better to fit them for concerts, both 
public and private. To render this work per- 
fect, we are desirous to have the poetry impro- 
ved, wherever it seems unworthy of the music, 
and that it is so in many instances, is allowed 
by every one conversant with our musical col- 
lections. The editors of these seem in general 
to have depended on the music proving an ex- 
cuse for the verses : and hence, some charming 
melodies are united to mere nonsense and dog- 
gerel, while others are accommodated with 
rhymes so loose and indelicate, as cannot be 
sung in decent company. To remove this re- 
proach would be an easy task to the author of 
The Cotter''s Saturday Night ; and, for the hon- 
or of Caledonia, I would fain hope he may be 
induced to take up the pen. If so, we shall be 
enabled to present the public with a collection 
infinitely more interesting than any that has as 
yet appeared, and acceptable to all persons of 
taste, whether they wish for correct melodies, 
delicate accompaniments, or characteristic ver- 
,ses. We will esteem your poetical assistance a 
iparticular favor, besides paying any reasonable 
:price you shall please to demand for it. Profit 
is quite a secondary consideration with us, and 
we are resolved to spare neither pains nor ex- 
p<3nse on the publication. Tell me frankly, 
then, whether you will devote your leisure to 
writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited to 
the particular melodies which I am prepared to 
send you. A few songs, exceptionable only in 
some of their verses, J will likewise submit to 
your consideration ; leaving it to you, either to 
mend these., or make new songs, in their stead. 
It is superfluous to assure you that I have no 
intention to displace any of the sterling old 
songs ; those only will be removed, which ap- 
pear quite silly, or absolutely indecent. Even 
these shall all be examined by Mr. Burns, and 
if he is of the opinion that any of them are de- 
serving of music, in such cases no divorce shall 
take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this, to 
be rforgivtn for the liberty I have taken in ad- 
dressing you, I am, with great esteem. Sir, your 
most obedient humble servant, 

G. THOMSON. 



No. II. 
5MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



Sir, 



Dumfries, I6th September, 1792. 



I have just this moment got your letter. As 
the request you make to me will positively add 



to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small 
portion of abilities I have, strained to their ut- 
most exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only don't hurry me : " Deil tak the hindmost," 
is by no means the cri de guerre of my muse. 
Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in en- 
thusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of 
old Caledonia, and, since you request it, have 
cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — 
will you let me have a list of your airs, with the 
first line of the printed verses you intend for 
them, that I may have an opportunity of sug- 
gesting any alteration that may occur to me. 
You know 'tis in the way of my trade ; still 
leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of 
publishers, to approve or reject, at your pleas- 
ure, for your own publication. A-propos ! if 
you are for English verses, there is, on my 
part, an end of the matter. Whether in the sim- 
plicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, 
I can only hope to please myself in being allow- 
ed at least a sprinkling of our native tongue. 
English verses, particularly the works of Scots- 
men, that have merit, are certainly very eligible. 
Tweedside — Ah, the poor shepherd's mournful 
fate — Ah, Chloris could 1 now but sit, rf-c, you 
cannot mend ; but such insipid stuff as. To Fan- 
ny fair could I impart, &,c., usually set to 
21ie Mill Mill 0, is a disgrace to the collection ^ 
in which it has already appeared, and would 
doubly disgrace a collection that will have the 
very superior merit of yours. But more of this 
in the farther prosecution of the business, if I 
am called on for my strictures and amendments 
— I say, amendments: for I will not alter 
except where I myself at least think that I 
amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my 
songs either above or below price ; for they 
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the 
honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your 
undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, 
&c., would be downright prostitution of soul ! 
A proof of each of the songs that I compose or 
amend, I shall receive as a favor. In the rustic 
phrase of the season, " Gude speed the wark I" 
I am. Sir, your very humble servant, 

R. BURNS. 

P. S. 1 have some particular reasons for 
wishing my interference to be known as little 
as possible. 



No. III. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, nth October, 1792. 
Dear Sir, 

I received, with much satisfaction, your pleas- 
ant and obliging letter, and I return my warm- 
est acknowledgments for the enthusiasm with 
which you have entered into our undertaking. 
We have no doubt of being able to produce a 
collection highly deserving of public attention in 
all respects. 

1 agree with you in thinking English verses 
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new 
verses are necessary ; because the English be- 
comes every year more and more the language 



LETTERS 



295 



of Scotland ; but if you mean that no English 
verses, except those by Scottish authors, ought 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from 
you. I should consider it unpardonable to sac- 
rifice one good song in the Scottish dialect, to 
make room for English verses ; but if we can 
select a few excellent ones suited to the un- 
provided or ill-provided airs, would it not be the 
very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject 
such, merely because the authors were born 
south of the Tweed ? Our sweet air My Nim- 
nie 0. which in the collections is joined to the 
poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, be- 
ginning, While some for pleasure pawn their 
health, answers so finely to Dr. Percy's beauti- 
ful song, 0, Nancy wilt thou go with me, that 
one would think lie wrote it on purpose for the 
air. However, it is not at all our wish to con- 
fine you to English verses ; you shall freely be 
allowed a sprinkling of your native tongue, as 
you elegantly express it : and moreover, we 
will patiently wait your own time. One thing 
only I beg, which is, that however gay and 
sportive the muse may be, she may always be 
decent. Let her not write what beauty would 
blush to speak, nor wound that charming delica- 
cy which forms the most precious dowry of our 
daughters. I do not conceive the song to be 
the most proper vehicle for witty and brilliant 
conceits; simplicity, I believe, should be its 
prominent feature ; but, in some of our songs, 
the writers have confounded simplicity with 
coarseness and vulgarity ; although between 
the one and the other, as Doctor Beattie well 
observes, there is as great a difference as be- 
tween a plain suit of clothes and a bundle of 
rags. The humorous ballad, or pathetic com- 
plaint, is be^t suited to our artless melodies ; 
and more interesting, indeed, in all songs, than 
the most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions and 
flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you 
eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish to 
substitute others of your writing. I shall .eoon 
transmit the rest, and, at the same time, a pro- 
spectus of the whole collection: and you may 
believe we will receive any hints that you are 
so kind as to give for improving the work, with 
the greatest pleasure and thankfulness. 

I remain, dear Sir, &.c. 



No. IV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

My Dear Sir, 

Let me tell you, that you are too fastidious in 
your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that 
your criticisms are just; the songs you specify 
in your list have all, but one, the faults you re- 
mark in them ; but who shall mend the matter? 
Who shall rise up and say — Go to, f will make 
a better? For instance, on reading over the 
Lea-rig, T immediately set about trying my 
hand on it, and. after all, I could make noth- 
ing more of it than the following, which Heav- 
en knows is poor enough : 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 
Tells biightin time is near my jo ; 

And owsen fr;ie the fiirrow'd field, 
Return sae dowf and weary O ; 



Down by the burn, where scented blrks* 
Wi'dew are haiiping clear, my jo, 

I'll meet tltee on the lea-rig, 
My ain kind dearie O. 

Ill mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that qlen I paed to thee. 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Aliho' the 11 ght were ne'er sae wild, t 

And I w.-re ne'er sae wearie O, 
rd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air Nannie 0. is just. It 
is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad in 
tile English language. But let me remark to 
you, that, in the sentiment and style of our 
Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a 
something that one may call the Doric style 
and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of 
our native tongue and manners is particularly, 
nay peculiarly apposite. For this reason, and, 
upon my honor, for this reason alone, I am of 
opinion (but, as I told you before, my opinion 
is yours, freely yours, to approve, or reject, as 
you please) that my ballad of Nannie 0, might 
perhaps, do for one set of verses to the tune. 
Now don't let it enter into your head, that you 
are under any necessity of taking my verses. I 
have long ago made up my mind as to my own 
reputation in the business of authorship ; and 
have nothing to be pleased or ofii^nded at, in 
your adoption or rejection of my verses. The' 
you should reject one half of what I give you, 
I shall be pleased with your adopting the other 
half, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will 
alter it, 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows.' 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but I have just now 
an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, 
free of postage, an expense that it is ill able to 
pay: so, with my best compliments to honest 
Allan. Good be wi' ye, &.c. 

Friday night. 

* For "scented birks," in fome copies, "birken 
buds." E. 

I In the copy transmitted to Mr. Thomson, in- 
stead of wild, was inserted wet. But in one of the 
manuscripts, probably written afterwards, wet wag 
changed into wild ; evidently a preai improvement. 
The lovers mipht meet on the lea-r g. " although the 
night were ne'er t^o wild.^' that is, alihough the sum- 
mer-wind blew, ihe sky lowered, and the thunder 
muriTiured ; such circumstances might render their 
meeting i^till more intere.-ting. But if the night were 
wet, why should thry meet on the lea-rig 7 On a 
wet night the imagination cannot coniemplate tiieir 
situation there with any complacency. Tibullus, 
and auer him, Hammond, lias conceived a happier 
situation for lovers on a wet night. Probably Burns 
had in his mind the verse of an old Scottish Song, 
in which vcet and weary are naturally enough con- 
joined. 

" When my ploughman comes hame at ev'n 

He's often wet and weary ; 
Cast off the wet, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed my deary." 



296 



LETTERS. 



Saturday morning. 

As I find I have still an hour to spare this 
morning before my conveyance goes away, I 
will give you Nannie 0, at length. See Poems, 
p. 41. 

Your remarks on Ewe-hughts, Marion, are 
just : still it has obtained a place among our 
more classical Scottish songs; and what with 
many beauties in its composition, and more pre- 
judices in its favor, you will not find it easy to 
supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was think- 
ing of going to the West Indies, I took the fol- 
lowing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite tri- 
fling, and has nothing of the merits of Ewe- 
bughts : but it will fill up this page. You 
must know, that all my earlier love-songs were 
the breathings of ardent passion : and though it 
might have been easy in after-times to have 
given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, 
whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared 
for them, would have defaced the legend of my 
heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on 
them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they 
say of wines, their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

See Poems, p. 63. 

Galla Water, and Auld Bob Morris., I think, 
will most probably be the next subject of my 
musings. However, even on my verses, speak 
out your criticisms with equal frankness. My 
wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying bi- 
got of opiniatrete, but cordially to join issue 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 



O SAW ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border ? 

See Poems, p. 64. 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will 
take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, 
they are all put into your hands, as clay into 
the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to 
honor, and another to dishonor. Farewell, &c. 



No. V. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November 8th, 1792. 
If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs 
in your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty 
in the undertaking than you are aware of. 
There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our 
airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the 
emphasis, or what I would call xhe feature notes 
of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difficulties. For in- 
stance, in the air, 3Iy wife's a wanton wee 
thing, if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can be 
adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The fol- 
lowing were made extempore to it, and though, 
on further study, I might give you something 
more profound, yet it might not suit the light- 
horse gallop of the air so well as this random 
clink — 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing. 

See Poems, p. 64. 

1 have just been looking over the Collier''s 
Bonnie Dochter ; and if the following rhapsody, 
which I composed the other day, on a charming 

Ayrshire girl. Miss , as she passed through 

this place to England, will suit your taste better 
than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome. 



No. VI. 

TO THE SAME. 

Inclosing the Song on Highland Mary. 

See Poems, p. 64. 

Wth November, 1792. 
My Dear Sir,— 

I AGREE with you that the song Katharine 
Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried 
to mend it, but the awkward sound, Ogie, re- 
curring so often in the rhyme, spoils every at- 
tempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. 
The foregoing song pleases myself; I think it 
is in my happiest manner ; you will see at first 
glance that it suits the air. The subject of the 
song is one of the most interesting passages of 
my youthful days ; and I own that I should be 
much flattered to see the verses set to an air, 
which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after 
all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart, 
that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits 
of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob 
Morris. I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a new plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ceremonie, 
make what use you choose of the productions. 
Adieu ! &c. 



No. VII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, November, 1792. 
Dkar Sir, 

I WAS just going to write to you that on meet- 
ing with your Nannie, I had fallen violently in 
love with her. 1 thank you, therefore, for send- 
ing the charming rustic to me, in the dress you 
wish her to appear before the public. She does 
you great credit, and will soon be admitted into 
the best company. 

I regret that your song for the Lea-rig is so 
short ; the air is easy, soon sung, and very 
pleasing ; so that, if the singer stops at the end 
of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is well 



Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and 
appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able 
to present a considerable number of the very 
Flowers of English Song, well adapted to those 
melodies, which, in England at least, will be 
the means of recommending them to still 
greater attention than they have procured there. 
But you will observe, rny plan is, that every 
air shall, in the first place, have verses wholly 



LETTERS, 



297 



by Scottish poets : and that those of English 
writers shall follow as additional songs, for the 
choice of the singer. 

What you say of the Ewe-hughts is just; I 
admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All 
1 requested was, that you would try your hand 
on some of the inferior stanzas, which are ap- 
parently no part of the original song : but this I 
do not urge, because the song is of sufficient 
length though those inferior stanzas be omitted, 
as they will be by the singer of taste. You 
must not think that I expect all the songs to be 
of superlative merit ; that were an unreasonable 
expectation. I am sensible, that no poet can 
sit down doggedly to pen verses, and succeed 
well at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your humorous and 
amorous rhapsody on Bonnie Leslie ; it is a 
thousand times better than the Collier's Lassie. 
" The deil he could na scaith thee," &c., is an 
eccentric and happy thought. Do you not 
think, however, that the names of such old he- 
roes as Alexander, sound rather queer, unless 
in pompous or mere burlesque verse ? Instead 
of the line, "And never made another," I 
would humbly suggest, " And ne'er made sic 
anither;" and I would fain have you substitute 
some other line for *' Return to Caledonia," in 
the last verse, because I think this alteration of 
the orthography, and of the sound of Caledonia, 
disfigures the word, and renders it Hudibrasiic. 

Of the other song. My wife's a winsome wee 
thing, I think the first eight lines very good ; 
but I do not admire the other eight, because 
four of them are a bare repetition of the first 
verse. I have been trying to spin a stanza, but 
could make nothing better than the following : 
Do you mend it, or, as Yorick did with the 
love-letter, whip it up in your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing ; 
My bonnie biylhsome wee thing ; 
Sae iang's 1 hae my wee thing, 
I'll Ihink my lot divine. 

Tho'warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meickle mairo't ; 
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it. 
And ne'er a word repine. 

You perceive, my dear Sir, I avail myself of 
the liberty which you condescend to allow me, 
by speaking freely what I think. Be assured 
it is not my disposition to pick out the faults of 
any poem or picture I see : my first and chief 
object is to discover and be delighted with the 
beauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine 
critically, and at leisure, what perhaps you have 
written in haste, I may happen to observe care- 
less lines, the reperusal of which might lead 
you to improve them. The wren will often see 
what has been overlooked by the eagle. I re- 
main yours faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary are 
just come to hand : they breathe the genuine 
spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last 
for ever. Such verses united to such an air, 
with the delicate harmony of Pleyel superadd- 
ed, might form a treat worthy of being presented 
to Apollo himself. I have heard the sad story 
of your Mary: you always seem inspired when 
you write of her. 



No. VIII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Dumfries, \st December, 1792. 

Your alterations of my Naiinie O, are per- 
fectly right. So are those oi My vjifes a wan- 
ton wee thing. Your alteration of the second 
stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my 
dear Sir, with the freedom which characterizes 
our correspondence, I must not, cannot, alter 
Bonnie Leslie. You are right, the word, "Al- 
exander," makes the line a little uncouth, but 
I think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, 
beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in the 
sublime language of scripture, that " he went 
forth conquering and to conquer." 

" For Nature made her wh.it she is, 
And never made anither." (Such a person as she is.) 

This is, in my opinion, more poetical than 
" Ne'er made sic anither," However, it is 
immaterial; make it either way.* " Cale- 
donie," I agree with you is not so good a word 
as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in 
three or tour instances by Allan Ramsay : but 
I cannot help it. In short, that species of stan- 
za is the most difficult that I have ever tried. 

The Lea-rig is as follows. {Here the poet 
gives the two first stanzas as before, p. 295, with 
the following in addition.) 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo: 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo : 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray. 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



1 am interrupted. 



Yours, &c. 



No. IX. 

TO THE SAME. 

Inclosing Auld Rob Morris, and Duncan Gray. 

See Poems, p. 64. 

Ath December, 1792. 
The foregoing {Auld Rob Morris and Dmi' 
can Gray,) I submit, my dear Sir, to your bet- 
ter judgment. Acquit them, or condemn them, 
as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan Gray 
is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air, 
which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is 
its ruling feature. 



No. X. 

TO THE SAME. 

With Poorlith Cauld and Galla Water. See 
Poems, p. 65. 

January , 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you, my dear 

Sir. How conies on your publication? will 

these two foregoing be of any service to you ? 

I should like to know what songs you print to 

* Mr. Thorn son has decided on Jfe'er wade sic 
anitkcr. E. 



298 



LETTERS. 



each tune besides the verses to which it is set. 
In short, I would wish to give you my opinion 
on all the poetry you publish. You know it is 
my trade, and a man in the way ot" his trade, 
may suggest useful hints, that escape men of 
superior parts and endowments in other things. 
If you meet with my dear and much-valued 
C, greet him in my name, with the compli- 
ments of the season. Yours, &,c. 



No. XL 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, January 20, 1793. 

You make me happy, my dear Sir, and 
thousands will be happy to see the charming 
songs you have sent me. Many merry returns 
of the season to you, and may you long con- 
tinue, among the sons and daughters of Cale- 
donia, to delight them, and to honor yourself. 

The four Inst songs with which you favored 
me, viz. Auld Bob Morris, Duncan Gray. Gal- 
la Water, and Cauld Kail, are admirable. 
Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his humor 
will endear him to everybody. 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the 
happy Shepherdess in Galla Water, exhibit an 
excellent contrast : they speak from genuine 
feeling, and powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had originally 
in view was limited ; but I now resolve to in- 
clude every Scotch air and song worth singing, 
leaving none behind but mere gleanings, to 
which the publishers of omuegatherum are wel- 
come. I would rather be the editor of a collec- 
tion from which nothing could be taken away, 
than of one to which nothing could be added. 
We intend presenting the subscribers with two 
beautiful stroke engravings ; the one character- 
istic of the plaintive, and the other of the lively 
songs; and I have Dr. Beatiie's promise of an 
essay upon the subject of our national music, 
if his health will permit him to write it. As a 
number of our songs have doubtless been called 
forth by particular events, or by the charms of 
peerless damsels, there must be many curious 
anecdotes relating to them. 

The late Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee. I be- 
lieve, knew more of this than any body ; for 
he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste 
for poetry, besides being a man of the world, 
and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond 
most of his contemporaries. He was quite 
pleased with this plan of mine, for I may say it 
has been solely managed by me, and we had 
several long conversations about it when it was 
in embryo. If I could simply mention the 
name of the heroine of each song, and the inci- 
dent which occasioned the verses, it would be 
gratifying. Pray, will you send me any infor- 
mation of this sort, as well with regard to your 
own songs as the old ones ? 

To all the favorite songs of the plaintive or 
pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate accom- 
paniments. &c., of Pleyel. To those of the 
comic and humorous class, I think accompani- 
ments scarcely necessary ; they are chiefly fitted 
for the conviviality of the festive board, and a 
tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of the 
words, renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to 



these I propose adding bass accompaniments, 
because then they are fitted either for singing, 
or for instrumental performance, when there 
happens to be no singer. I mean to employ 
our right trusty friend, Mr. Clarke, to set the 
bass to these, which he assures me he will do 
C071 amore, and with much greater attention 
than he ever bestowed on any thing of the kind. 
But for this last class of airs, I will not attempt 
to find more than one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has start- 
ed I know not how many difliculties, about 
writing for the airs I sent to him, because of the 
peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels 
they impose on his flying Pegasus. I subjoin 
for your perusal the only one 1 have yet got 
from biin, being for the fine air " Lord Grego- 
ry.'' The Scots verses printed with that air, 
are taken from the middle of an old ballad, call- 
ed The Lass of Lochroi;a7i, which I do not ad- 
mire. I have set down the air, therefore, as a 
creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs 
are replete with wit and humor: might not the 
j best of these be included in our volume of co- 
mic songs ? 



POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to give 
me a perusal of your songs. Highland Mary is 
most enchantingly pathetic, and Duncan Gray 
possesses native genuine humor ; " spak o' low- 
pin o'er a linn," is a line of itself that should 
make you immortal. I sometimes hear of you 
from our mutual friend C, who is a most excel- 
lent fellow, and possesses, above all men I 
know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. 
You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a 
collection of your unpublished productions, re- 
ligious and amorous : I know from experience 
how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any 
trusty person in Dumfries to write them over 
fair, r will give Peter Hill whatever money he 
asks for his trouble, and I certainly shall not 
betray your confidence. — I am your hearty ad- 
mirer, ANDREW ERSKINE. 



No. XIL 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

26th January, 1793. 
I approve greatly, my dear Sir, of .your 
plans; Dr. Beattie's essay will of itself be a 
treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up an 
appendix to the Doctor's essay, containing my 
stock of anecdotes, &c., of our Scots songs. 
All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by 
me, taken down in the course of my acquaint- 
ance with him from his own mouth. I am such 
an enthusiast, that, in the course of my several 
peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pil- 
grimage to the individual spot from which 
every song took its rise ; Lochaber and the 
Braes of Ballenden, excepted. So far as the 
locality, either from the title of the air or the 
tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have 
paid my devotions at the particular shrine of 
every Scots muse. 



LETTERS 



299 



I do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable collection of Jacobite songs ; but 
would it give no offence ? In the mean time, 
do not you think that some of them, particularly 
The how's tail to Geordie, as an air, with other 
words, might be well worth a place in your col- 
lection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, 
it would be proper to have one set of Scots 
words to every air, and that the set of words to 
which the notes ought to be set. There is a 
naivete, a pastoral simplicity in a slight inter- 
mixture of Scots words and phraseology, which 
is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I 
will add to every genuine Caledonian taste) 
with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of 
our native music, than any English verses 
whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisi- 
tion to your work. His Gregory is beautiful. 
I have tried to give you a set oistanzas in Scots, 
on the same subject, which are at your service. 
Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter; 
tlsat would be presumption indeed. My song, 
though much inferior in poetic merit, has I 
think more of the ballad simplicity about it.* 

My most respectful compliments to the hon- 
orable gentleman who favored me with a 
postscript in your last. He shall hear from me 
and receive his MSS. soon. 



No. XIII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

20th March, 1793. 
My Dear Sir, 

The song prefixed is one of my juvenile 
works. + I leave it in your hands. I do not 
think it very remarkable, either for its merits 
or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it 
so in my stinted powers) to be always original, 
entertaining, and witty. 

* For Burns' words, see Poems, p. 65. The song 
of Dr. VValcott, on the same subject, is as follows : 

Ah I ope, Lord Gregory, thy door ! 

A midnight wanderer sighs : 
Hard rush tlie rains, the ti-mpests roar, 

And lightnings cleave the skies. 

Who comes with wo at this drear night — 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shall yield her roonj. 

Alas ! thon hoard'st a pilgrim mourn, 

Thai once w;is priz.ed by tliee ; 
Tliiiik of the ring by yonder burn 

Thou gav'st to love and me. 

But shoiildst thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part : 
And think the storms that round me blow. 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is hut doing justice to Dr. Walcott to mention, 
that his song is the original. Mr. Burns saw it, liked 
it. and immediately wrote the other on the same sub- 
ject, which is derived from an old Scottish ballad of 
uncertain origin. E. 

t Mary Morison, Poems, p. 66. 



What is become of the list, &,c. of your 
songs ? I shall be out of alt temper with you 
by and by. 1 have always looked upon my- 
self as the prince of indolent correspondents, 
and valued myself accordingly ; and 1 will not, 
cannot bear rivalship from you, nor any body 
else. 



No. XIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

IVith the first copy of Wandering Willie. 
See Foems, p. 66. 

March, 1793. 
I leave it to you, my dear Sir. to determine 
whether the above, or the old Thro' the tang 
Muir, be best. 



XV. 

TO THE SAME. 
OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH '. 

WITH alterations. 

Oh : open the door, some pity to show, 
Oh! open ihe door to me, Oh !* 

See Poems, p. 66. 

I do not know whether this song be really 
mended. 



No. XVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

JESSIE. 

7'une— " Bonnie Dundee." 

Teuk hearted was he. the sad Swain o' the Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr ; 
See Poems, p. 66. 



No. XVII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 2nd April, 1793. 

I will not recognize the title you give your- 
self, " the prince of hidoUnt correspondents;" 
but if the adjective were taken away, I think 
the title would then fit you exactly. It gives 
me pleasure to find that you can furnish anec- 
dotes with respect lo most of the songs; 
these will be a literary curiosity. 

1 now send you my list of the songs, which I 
believe will be found nearly complete. I have 
put down the first lines of all the English songs 
which I propose giving in addition to the Scotch 
verses. If any others occur to you, better 
adapted to the character of the airs, pray men- 
tion them, when you favor me with your 

* This second line was originally, 
Of lovt it may na be, O I 



m 



LETTERS 



strictures upon everything else relating to the 
work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
songs, with his symphonies and accompani- 
ments added to them. I wish you were here, 
that I might serve up some of them to you with 
your own verses, by way of desserc after dinner. 
There is so much delightful fancy in the sym- 
phonies, and such a delicate simplicity in the 
accompaniments — they are indeed beyond all 
praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several last 
productions of your muse : your Lord Gregory, 
in my estimation, is more interesting than Pe- 
ter's, beautiful as his is ! Your Here awa Wil- 
lie must undergo some alterations to suit the 
air. Mr. Erskine and I have been conning it 
over ; he will suggest what is necessary to make 
them a fit match.* 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine 
taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleased 
both with the musical and poetical part of our 
work, that he has volunteered his assistance, 
and has already written four songs for it, which, 
by his own desire, I send for your perusal. 



No. XVIII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD war's DEADLY BLAST WAS 
BLAWN. 

jitV— "The Mill MiUO." 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 
And gentle peace returning, 

See Poems, p. 66. 

MEG 0' THE MILL. 

^ir — "Obonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack." 

Oken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 

See Poems, p. 67. 



No. XIX. 
TO THE SAME. 

la April, 1793. 
Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. 
You cannot imagine how much this business 

♦ See tlie altered copy of Wandering Willie, p. 66. 
of the Poems. Several of the alterations seem to 
be of little importance in themselves, and were 
adopted, it m.ay be presumed, for the sake of suiting 
the words better to the music. Tlie Homeric epithet 
for the sea, dark-heavivt;, suf-'gested by Mr. Erskine, 
is in itself more beautiful, as well perhaps as more 
sublime, than roiJrf-roarin^B-, which he has retained; 
but as it is only applicable to a placid state of the sea, 
or at most to the swell left on its surface after 
the storm is over, it gives a picture of that ele- 
ment not so well adapted to the ideas of eternal 
separation, which the fair mourner is supposed to 
imprecate. From the original song of Here awa 
IVillie, Burns has borrowed nothimr but the sec- 
ond lino and part of the first. The superior excel- 
lence of tliis beautiful poem, will, it is hoped, jus- 
tify the dilTerent editions of it which we have given. 

E. 



of composing for your publication has added to 
my enjoyments. What with my early attach- 
ment to ballads, your books, &c., ballad-mak- 
ing is now as completely my hobby-horse, as 
ever fortification was uncle I'oby's ; so I'll e'eu 
canter it away till I come to the limit of my 
race (God grant that I may take the right side 
of the winning post I) and then cheerfully look- 
ing back on the honest folks with whom I have 
been happy, I shall say or sing, *' Sae merry 
as we a' hae been !" and raising my last looks 
to the whole human race, the last words of the 
voice of Coila* shall be, " Goodnight, and joy 
be wi' you a' !" So much for my past words : 
now for a few present remarks, as they have 
occurred at random on looking over your list. 

The first lines of The last time I came o er the 
moor, and several other lines in it, are beautiful; 
but in my opinion — pardon me revered shade of 
Ramsay! the song is unworthy of the divine air. 
I shall try to make or me7id. Forever, Fortune, 
wilt thou prove, is a charming song ! but Lo^an 
bur7i and Logan braes, are sweetly susceptible 
of rural imagery: I'll try that likewise, and if 
I succeed, the other song may class among the 
English ones. I remember the two last lines 
of a verse, in some of the old songs of Logan 
Water (for I know a good many different ones) 
which I think pretty. 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, farfrae me and Logan braes," 

My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. *' His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression 
indeed. 

'♦ Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony." — 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
your book. My song, Rigs of Barley, to the 
same tune, does not altogether please me ; but if 
I can mend it, and thresh a few loose sentiments 
out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. 
2Vie Lass o' Patie'^s Mill is one of Ramsay's 
best songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in 
it, which my much valued friend Mr. Erskine 
will take into his critical consideration. In 
Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes, are two 
claims, one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and 
the other from Ayrshire, for the honor of this 
song. The following anecdote, which I had 
from the present Sir William Cunningham of 
Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl 
of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-castle 
with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; and 
one forenoon, riding or walking out together, 
his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic 
spot on Irvine water, still called " Patie's 
Mill," where a bonnie lass was " tedding hay, 
bare headed on the green." My Lord observed 
to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a 
song. Ramsay took the hint, and lingering be- 
hind, he composed the first sketch of it, which 
he produced at dinner. 

One day I heard Mary say, is a fine song ; 
but for consistency's sake alter the name " Ado- 

*Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coila i.n 
imitation of Ossian, who denominates himself the 
Voice of Cona. Sae merry as we a' hac been . and 
Good vigrht and joy be wV you a', are the names of 
two Scottish tunes. 



LETTERS 



301 



nis." Were there ever such banns published, 
as a purpose oi marriage between Adonis and 
Mary ? I agree with you that my song, There' s 
naupkt but care on every hand., is much superior 
to Foorlith cauld. '1 he original song, The 
Mill Mill 0, though excellent, is, on account 
of delicacy; inadmissible ; still I like the title, 
and think a Scottish song would suit the notes 
best ; and let your chosen song, which is very 
pretty, follow, as an English set. The Banks 
of the Dee, is, you know, literally Langolee, to 
slow time. The song is well enough, but has 
some false imagery in it : for instance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.^^ 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a 
low bush, but never from a tree ; and in the sec- 
ond place, there never was a nightingale seen, 
or heard, on the banks of the Dee, or on the 
banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic 
rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If 
I could hit on another stanza, equal to The 
small birds rejoice, &c. 1 do myself honestly 
avow, that I think it a superior song.* John 
Anderson my jo — the song to this tune in John- 
son's Museum, is my compo^ilion, and I think it 
not my worst : if ii suit you, take it, and wel- 
come. Your collection of sentimental and pa- 
thetic songs, is, in my opinion, very comple'e ; 
but not so your comic ones. Where are Tul- 
lochgorum, Lumps o' puddin, Tibbie Fowler, 
and several others, which, in my humble judg- 
ment, are well worthy of preservation ? There 
is also one sentimental song of mine in the Mu- 
seum, which never was known out of the im- 
mediate neighborhood, until I got it taken down 
from a country girl's singing. It is called 
Craigieburn Wood; and in the opinion of Mr. 
Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scottish songs. 
He is quite an enthtisinst about it : and I would 
take his taste in Scottish music against the taste 
of most connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five 
in your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
Shepherds I have lost my love ! is to me a heav- 
enly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a 
good while ago, which 1 think * * * 
but in its original state is not quite a lady's song. 
I enclose an altered, not amended copy for 
you. if you choose to set the tune to it, and let 
the Irish verses follow, t 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
Lone Vale, is divine. Yours, &-c. 

Let me know just how you like thei-e random 
hints. 

* It will be found, in the course of this correspon- 
dence, that t!ie Bard {.induced a second stanza of 
The Chevalier's Lament (to which he here alludes) 
worthy of the first. E. 

■f Mr. Thomson, it appears, did not approve of this 
Bong, even in its alti-red stale. It does not appear 
in the correspondence ; but it is probably one to be 
found in his MSS. beginning, 

" Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 
A place where body saw na ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast of mine, 
The gowden locks of Anna." 

It is highly characteristic of our Bard, but the 
strain of sentiment does not correspond with the air 
to which he proposes it should be allied. 



No. XX. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 

I rejoice to find, my dear Sir, that ballad-ma- 
king continues to be your hobby-horse. Great 
pity 'twould be were it otherwise. 1 hope you 
will amble it away for many a year, and "witch 
the world with your horsemanship." 

I know there are a good many lively songs 
of merit that I have not put down in the 
list sent you ; but I have them all in my eye. 
My Fatie is a lover gay, though a little une- 
qual, is a natural and very pleasing song, and 
1 humbly think we ought not to displace or 
alter it, except the last stanza.* 



No. XXI. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
I have yours, my dear Sir, this moment. 
shall answer it and your former letter, in my 
desultory way of saying whatever comes upper- 
most. 

The business of many of our lunes wanting, 
at the beginning, what fiddlers call a starting- 
note, is ofien a rub to us poor rhymers. 

'• There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander through the blooming heather," 
You may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," &.c. 

My song, Here awa. there awa, as amended 
by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- 
turn you.t 

Give me leave to criticise your taste, in the 
only thing in which it is, in my opinion, repre- 
hensible. You know, I ought to know some- 
thing of my own trade. 01 pathos, sentiment, 
and point, you are a complete judge : but there 
is a quality more necessary than either, in a 
song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, 
I mean simplicity : now, if I mistake not, this 
last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the 
foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces ; still I can- 
not approve of taking such liberties with an 
author as Mr. W. proposes doing wuh The last 
time I came o'er Ike moor. Let a poet, if he 
chooses, take up the idea of another, and work 
U into a piece of his own ; but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue 
is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow 
house — by Heaven, 'twould be sacrilege ! I 
grant that Mr. VV.'s version is an improvement: 
but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him 
much ; let him mend the song, as the High- 
lander mended his gun — he gave it a new stock, 
a new lock, and a new barrel. 

* The original letter from Mr. Thomson contains 
many obsfrvalions on the Scottish songs, and on the 
manner of adapting the words to the music, which at 
his desire, are suppressed. The subsequent let- 
ter of Mr. Burns refers to several of these obser- 
vations. E. 

t The reader has already seen that Burns did not 
£. 1 finally adopt all of Mr. Erskine's alterations. £. 



302 



LETTERS. 



I do not by this object to leaving out impro- 
per stanzas, where that can be done without 
spoiling ihe whole. One stanza in The Lass 
of Patie's MilL must be left out : the song will 
be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we 
can take the same liberty with Corn rigs are 
honnie. Perhaps it might want the last stanza, 
and be the better for it. CaulJ, kail in Aber- 
deen, you must leave with me yet a while. I 
have vowed to have a song to that air, on the 
lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses Poortith cauld and restless love. At any 
rate, my other song, Green grow the rashes, 
will never suit. That song is current in Scot- 
land under the old title, and to the merry old 
tune of that name, which of course would mar 
the progress of your song to celebrity. Your 
book will be the standard of Scots songs for the 
future: let this idea ever keep your judgment 
on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit Bonnie Du7idee. I send you 
also a ballad to the Mill Mill 0.* 

The last time 1 came o'er the moor, I would 
fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let 
Ramsay's be the English set. You shall hear 
from me soon. When you go to London on 
this business, can you come by Dumfries? I 
have still several MSS. Scots airs by me which 
I have picked up, mostly from the singing of 
country lasses. They please me vastly ; but 
your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased 
with the very feature for which I like them. I 
call them simple ; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air called Jackie 
Hume's Lament ? I have a song of consider- 
able merit to that air. I'll enclose you both 
the song and tune, as 1 had them ready to send 
to Johnson's Museum. t I send you likewise, 
to me, a very beautiful little air, which I had 
taken down from viva voce.X 

Adieu ! 



No. XXIL 

TO THE SAME. 

April, 1793. 
Mt Dear Sir, 

I had scarcely put my last letter into the post- 
office, when I took up the subject of The last 
time I came o'^er the moor, and, ere I slept, drew 
the outlines of the foregoing. "Ji How far I have 
succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other 
occasion, to you to decide. I own my vanity 
is flattered, when you give my songs a place in 
your elegant and superb work ; but to be of 
service to the work is my first wish. As I have 

♦ The song to the tune of Bonnie Dundee, is that 
given ill the Poems, p. 66. The ballad to the Mill 
Mill O, is that liegiiining — 

'• When wild war's deadly bla.st was blawn." 

t The song here mentioned is that given in the 
Poems, p. h7. O ken ye what JHetr o' the Mill has got- 
ten ? This song is surely Mr. Burns's own wruing, 
thnuRh he does not geni-raily praise his own songs 
so much. — J^Tote by Mr. Thomson. 

X The air here mentioned is that for which he 
wrote the l)allad of Bonnie Jean, given in p. 67 of the 
Poems. 

$ See Poems, page Qi.— Young Pe^gy. 



often told you, 1 do not in a single instance wish 
you, out of compliment to me, to insert any 
thing of mine. One hint let me give you — 
whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter 
one iota of the original Scottish airs ; I mean 
in the song department ; but let our national 
music preserve its native features. They are, 
I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the 
more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- 
city, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect. 



No. XXIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 26th April, 1793. 
I heartily thank you, my dear Sir, for your 
last two letters, and the songs which accom- 
panied them. I am always both instructed and 
entertained by observations ; and the frankness 
with which you speak out your mind, is to me 
highly agreeable. It is very possible I may not 
have the true idea of simplicity in composition. 
I confess there are several songs, of Allan 
Ramsay's for example, that I think silly enough, 
which another person, more conversant than I 
have been with country people, would perhaps 
call simple and natural. But the lowest scenes 
of simple nature will not please generally, if 
copied precisely as they are. The poet, like 
the painter, must select what will form an 
agreeable as well as a natural picture. On this 
subject, it were easy to enlarge; but at present 
suffice it to say, that I consider simplicity, 
rightly understood, as a most essential quality 
in composition, and the ground-work of beauty 
in all the arts. I will gladly appropriate your 
most interesting new ballad, When viild war's 
deadly blast. See, to the Mill Mill O. as well 
as the two other songs to their respective airs ; 
but the third and fourth lines of the first verse 
must undergo some little alteration in order to 
suit the music. Pleyel does not alter a single 
note of the songs. That would be absurd in- 
deed ! With the airs which he introduces into 
the sonatas, I allow him to take such liberties 
as he pleases ; but that has nothing to do with 
the songs. 

M 

P. S. I wish yon would do as you proposed 
with your Rigs of Barley. If the loose senti- 
ments are threshed out of it, I will find an air 
for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. 



No. XXIV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
June, 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend 
of mine, in whom I am much interested, has 
fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
will easily allow that it might unhinge me for 
doing any good among ballads. My own loss, 
as to pecuniary matters, is trifling ; but the total 
ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed. 
Pardon my seeming inattention to your last 
commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill 



LETTERS. 



303 



Mill 0* What you think a defect, I esteem as 
a posir.ve beauty ; so you see how doctors differ, 
I shall now, with as much alacrity as 1 can 
muster, goon with your commands. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in 
Edinburgh — he is here, instructing a band of 
music for a fencible corps quartered in this 
country. Among many of his airs that please 
me, there is one, well known as a reel, by the 
name of The Quaker's Wife ; and which I re- 
member a grand aunt of mine used to sing by 
the name of Liggeram Cosh, my boniiie wee lass. 
Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an expres- 
sion that quite charms me. I became such 
an enthusiast about it, that I made a song for 
it, which I here subjoin, and enclose Frazer's 
set of the tune. If they hit your fancy, they 
are at your service ; if not, return me the tune, 
and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I think 
the song is not in my worst manner. 

Blythe hae I been on you hill, 
As tht; lambs before me. 

See Poems, p. 67. 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 



No. XXV. 
TO THE SAME. 

25th June, 1793. 
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom 
ready to burst with indignation on reading of 
those mighty villains who divide kingdom 
against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay 
nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambi- 
tion, or often from still more ignoble passions? 
In a mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the 
air of Logan Water; and it occurred to me that 
its querulous melody probably had its origin 
from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, 
suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of 
some public destroyer ; and overwhelmed with 
private distress, the consequence of a country's 
ruin. If I have done any thing at all like jus- 
tice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
posed in three quarters of an hour's meditation 
in my elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide. 
That day I was my Willie's bride. 

See Poems., p. 67. 

Do you know the following beautiful little 
fragment in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots 
Songs ? 

" O gin my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle wa'." 

See Poems, p. 68. 

» The lines were the third and fourth. See 
Poems, p. 66. 

" Wi' mony a sweet babe fathi-rlcss, 
Antl mony a widow niourninji." 
As oiir poet had maintained a long silence, and the 
first number of Mr. Thomson's Alu^ical Work was i 
in the press, this gentleman ventured by Mr. Er- 
skine's advice, to substitute for them in that publi- 
calion— 

"And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been blear'd with a:ourning." 
Though better suited to the music, these lines are 
inferior to the original. Tiiis is the only alieralion 
adopted by Mr. Thomson, which Burns did not ap- 
prove, or at least assent to. 



This thought is inexpressibly beautiful : and 
quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short 
for a song, else I would forswear you altogether 
unless you gave it a place. I have often tried 
to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. Alter bal- 
ancing myself for a musing live minutes, on the 
hind legs of my elbow chair, 1 produced the 
followuig. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I 
frankly confess ; but, if worthy of insertion at 
all, they might be first in place ; as every poet, 
who knows any thing of his trade, will husband 
his best thoughts for a concluding stroke. 

O, were my love yon lilacli fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring. 

Set Poems, p. 03. 



No. XXVI. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Monday, \st July, 1793. 

I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir. that any 
thing should happen to unhinge you. The times 
are terribly out of tune : and when harmony 
will be restored, Heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, will 
be despatched to you along with this. Let me 
be favored with your opinion of it frankly and 
freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you 
have written for the Quaker's Wife ; it is quite 
enchanting. Pray, will you return the list of 
songs with such airs added to it as you think 
ought to be included. The business now rests 
entirely on myself, the gentlemen who origin- 
ally agreed to join the speculation having re- 
quested to be off. No matter, a loser I cannot 
be. The superior excellence of the work will 
create a general demand for it as soon as it is 
properly known. And were the sale even 
slower than it promises to be, I should be 
somewhat compensated for my labor, by the 
pleasure I shall receive from the music. I can- 
not express how much I am obliged to you for 
the exquisite new songs you are sending me ; 
but thanks, my friend, are a poor return for 
what you have done : as I shall be benefited 
by the publication, you must suffer me to en- 
close a small mark of my gratitude,* and re- 
peat it afterwards when I find it convenient. 
Do not return it, for, by Heaven, if you do, our 
correspondence is at an end : and though this 
would be no loss to you, it would mar the pub- 
lication, which under your auspices cannot fail 
to be respectable and interesting. 



Wednesday Morning. 
I thank you for your delicate additional verses 
to the old fragment., and for your excellent 
song to Logan Water ; Thomson's truly ele- 
gant one will follow, for the English singer. 
Your apostrophe to the statesman is admirable: 
but I am not sure if it is quite suitable to the 
supposed gentle character of the fair mourner 
who speaks it. 

* Five Pounds, (£5). 



304 



LETTERS. 



No. XXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July 2d, 1793. 
My Dear Sir, 

I have just finished the following ballad, and, 
as I do think it in my best style, i send it you. 
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down tlie air from Mrs. 
Burns's wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and 
has given it a celebrity, by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first iashion here. If you 
do not like the air enough to give it a place in 
your collection, please return it. The song you 
Clay keep, as 1 remember it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair. 
At kirk and market to be seen. 

See Poems, p. 68. 

I have some thoughts of inserting in your in- 
dex, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, 
the themes of my songs ; I do not mean the 
name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as 
ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M., 
daughter to Mr. M.. of D., one of your sub- 
scribers. I have not painted her in the rank 
which she holds in life, but in the dress and 
character of a cottager. 



No. XXVIII. 
TO THE SAME. 

July, 1793. 

I assure you, my dear Sir, th^t you truly 
hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- 
grades me in niy own eyes. However, to re- 
turn it would savor of affectation : but as to 
any more traffic of that debtor and creditor 
kind. I swear by that Honor which crowns the 
upright statue of Robert Burns's Integrity, 
on the least motion of it, I will indignantly 
spurn the by-past transaction, and from that 
moment commence entire stranger to you ! 
Burns's character for generosity of sentiment 
and independence of mind, will, 1 trust, long 
out-live any of his wants which the cold un- 
feeling ore can supply: at least. I will take 
care that such a character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical 
work, such elegance and correctness. Your 
preface, too, is admirably written ; only your 
partiality to me has made you say loo much : 
however, it will bind me down to double every 
effort in the future progress of the work. The 
following are a few remarks on the songs in the 
list you sent me. I never copy what I write to 
you, so I may be often tautological, or perhaps 
contradictory. 

The Flowers of the Forest is charming as a 
poem, and should be, and must be, set to the 
notes; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas beginning, 

"I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortal- 
ize the author of them, who is an old lady of 
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn ; I for- 
get of what place ; but from Roxburghshire. 



What a charming apostrophe is — 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting. 
Why, why torment us— poor sons of a day .'" 

The old ballad, 1 wish I were where Helen 
lies, is silly to contemptibility.* My alteration 
of it in Johnson's is not much better. Mr 
Pinkerton, in his what he calls ancient ballads, 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough, forgeries) has the best set. It is full 
of his own interpolations, but no matter. 

In my next, 1 will suggest to your considera- 
tion a few songs which may have escaped your 
hurried notice. In the mean time, allow me to 
congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. 
You have committed your character and fame : 
which will now be tried for ages to come, by 
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Dau&hters 
of Taste — all whom poesy can please, or music 
charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by 
the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great- 
grand-child will hold up your volumes, and say, 
with honest pride, *' This so much admired se- 
lection was the work of my ancestor." 



No. XXIX. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 1st August, 1793. 
Dear Sir, 

I had the pleasure of receiving your last two 
letters, and am happy to find you are quite 
pleased with the appearance of the first book. 
When you come to hear the songs sung and 
accompanied, you will be charmed with them. 

The honnie brucket Lassie, certainly deserves 
better verses, and I hope you will match her. 
Cauld Kail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae 
night, and several of the livelier airs, wait the 
muse's leisure: these are peculiarly worthy 
of her choice gifts: besides, you'll notice, that 
in airs of this sort, the singer can always do 
greater justice to the poet, than in the slower 
airs of The Bush ahooii Traquair, Lord Gre- 
gory, and the like ; for. in the manner the latter 
are frequently sung, you must be contented 
with the sound, without the sense. Indeed, 
both the airs and words are disguised by the 
very slow, languid, psalm-singing style in 
which they are too often performed, they lose 
animation and expression altogether; and, in- 
stead of speaking to the mind, or touching the 
heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set us a 
yawning ! 

Your ballad, There was a lass a7id she was 
fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall un^' 
doubtedly grace my collection. 

No. XXX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
August, 1793. 
My Dear Thomson, 

I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who at 
present is studying the music of the spheres at 

* There is a copy of this ballad given in the ac- 
count of the Parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleeniing (which 
contain^i the tomi) of fair Helen Irvine.) in the Sta- 
tistics of Sir .John Sinclair, vol. xiii, p. t275, to which 
this character is certainly not api)licuble. 



LETTERS. 



305 



my elbow. The Georgium Sldus he thinks is 
rather out of tune ; so until he rectifies that 
matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, 
and if more are wanted, he says you shall have 
them. 



Confound your long stairs ! 



S. CLARKE. 



No. XXXL 
TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 
Your objection, my dear Sir, to the passages 
in my song of Logan Water, is right in one in- 
stance, but it is difficult to mend it ; if I can, I 
will. The other passage you object to, does not 
appear in the same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and 
you will probably think, with little success: 
but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way 
measure, that 1 despair of doing any thing bet- 
ter to it. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

While larks with little wing, 
Fann'd the pure air. 

See Poems, p. 68. 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, 
try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I al- 
ways find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I 
meant for Cuuld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits 
you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the he- 
roine is a favorite of mine ; if not, I shall also 
be pleased ; because I wish, and will be glad, 
to see you act decidedly on the business.* 'Tis 
a tribute, as a man of taste, and as an editor, 
which you owe yourself. 



No. XXXII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

August. 1793. 
My Good Sir, 

I consider it one of the most agreeable cir- 
cumstances attending this publication of mine, 
that it has procured me so many of your much 
valued epistles. Pray, make my acknow- 
ledgments to St. Stephen, for the tunes: tell 
him I admit the justness of his complaint on 
my staircase, conveyed in his laconic postscript 
to your jeu d' esprit, which I perused more 
than once, without discovering e.xactly whether 
your discussion was music, astronomy, or poli- 
tics: though a sagacious friend, acquainted with 
the convivial habits of the poet and the musi- 
cian, offered me a bet of two to one, you were 
just drowning care together; that an empty 
bowl was the only thing that would deeply af- 
fect you, and the only matter you could then 
study how to remedy ! 

* The song herewith sent, is that in p. 69, of the 



I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair a 
Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with an 
English suit for a change, and you are well 
matched together. Robin's air is excellent, 
though he certainly has an out-of-the-way 
measure, as ever poor Parnassian wight was 
plagued with. I wish you would invoke the 
muse for a single elegant stanza to be substitut- 
ed for the concluding objectionable verses of 
Down the Burn Davie, so that this most exqui- 
site song may no longer be excluded from good 
company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your John Anderson my Jo, which I am 
to have engraved as a frontispiece to the hum- 
orous class of songs : you will be quite charmed 
with it, 1 promi.^e you. The old couple are 
seated by the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great 
good humor, is clapping John's shoulders, while 
he smiles, and looks at her with such glee, as 
to show that he fully recollects the pleasant 
days and nights when they were jirgt arquent. 
The drawing would do honor to the pencil of 
Teniers. 



No. XXXIIL 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
August, 1793. 

That crinkum-crankum tune, Robin Adair, 
has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill 
in my last attempt, that I have ventured in 
this morning's walk, one essay more. You, 
my dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate part 
of our worihy friend C.'s story, which happen- 
ed about three years ago. That struck my 
fancy, and I endeavored to do the idea justice 
as follows : 

SONG. 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar. 
See Poems, p. 68. 

By the way, I have met with a musical 
Highlander, in Bredalbane's Fencibles, which 
are quartered here, who assures me that he 
well remembers his mother's singing Gaelic 
songs to both Robin Adair and Gramachree. 
They certainly have more of the Scotch than 
Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of In- 
verness ; so it could not be any intercourse 
with Ireland that could bring them ; — except, 
what I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the 
wandering minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used 
to go frequently errant through the wilds both 
of Scotland and Ireland, and so some favorite 
airs might be common to both. A case in point 
— They have lately, in Ireland, published an 
Irish air, as they say. called Caun du delish. 
The fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great 
while ago, you will find the same air, called a 
Highland one. with a Gaelic song xet to it. Its 
name there, I think, is Oran Gaoil, and a fine 
air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. 
Gaelic Parson about these matters. 



306 



LETTERS. 



No, XXXIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 
My Dear Sir, 

Let me in this ae night, I will consider. I 
am glad that you are pleased with my song, 
Had la cave, &.C., as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a vo- 
lume of the Museum in my hand ; when turn- 
ing up ylZ/an Water, " What numbers shall the 
muse repeat," &c., as the words appeared to 
me rather unworthy of so fine an air, and recol- 
lecting that it is on your list, I sat and raved 
under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one 
to suit the measure. I may be wrong ; but I 
think it not in my worst siyle. You must 
know, that in Ramsay's Tea-Table, where the 
modern song first appeared, the ancient name 
of the tune, Allan says, is Allan Water, or, 
Jlfy love Annie 's very Bonnie. This last has 
certainly been a line of the original song ; so I 
took up the idea, and, as you will see, have in- 
troduced the line in its place, which I presume 
it formerly occupied ; though I likewise give 
you a chusing line, if it should not hit the cut 
of your fancy. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove. 
While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi.* 

See Poems, p. 69. 

Bravo ! say I : it is a good song. Should 
you think so too (not else,) you can set the mu- 
sic to it, and let the other follow as English 
verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than all the year else. 

God bless you ! 



No. XXXV. 

TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 
Is Whistle, and Vll come to you, my Lad, one 
of your airs ; I admire it much ; and yesterday 
I set the following verses to it. Urbani, whom 
I have met with here, begged them of me, as 
he admires the air much : but as I understand 
that he looks with rather an evil eye on your 
work, I did not choose to comply. However, 
if the song does not suit your taste, I may pos- 
sibly send it him. The set of the air which f 
had in my eye is in Johnson's Museum. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my iad.i- 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

See Poems, p. 69. 



Another favorite air of mine, is. The MucJcin 
o' Geordic' s Byre, when sung slow with expres- 
sion ; I have wished that it had had better 

♦ A mountain, west of Strath-Allan, 3,000 feet 
high. R B. 

t In some of the MRS., the four first lines run thus: 
O whistle, und I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O wliistie, and I'll come to thee, my jo; 
Tho" father and mother, and a' should say no, 
O whistle, and IM come to thee, my jo. 

See also Letter. No. LXXVII. 



poetry ; that I have endeavored to supply as 

follows : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander,* 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring. 

See Poems, p. 69. 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a 
corner in your book, as she is a particular flame 
of his. She is a Miss P. M., sister to Bonnie 
Jean. They are both pupils of his. You shall 
hear from me the very first grist 1 get from my 
rhyming-mill. 

No. XXXVI. 
TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 
That time, Cauld Kail, is such a favorite of 
yours, that I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloamin-shot at the muses ;t when the 
muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or 
rather, my old inspiring, dearest nymph, Coila, 
whispered me the following. I have two rea- 
sons for thinking that it was my early, sweet, 
simple inspirer that was by my elbow, "smooth 
gliding without step,'' and pouring the song on 
my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I 
left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a 
poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, 
by catching inspiration from her ; so I more 
than suspect that she has followed me hither, or 
at least makes me occasional visits: secondly, 
the last stanza of this song I send you, is the 
very words that Coila taught me many years 
ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in 
Johnson's Museum. 

Come, let me take thee to my bieast, 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder. 

See Poems, p. 69. 

If you think the above will suit your idea of 
your favorite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
The last time I came o\r the Moor, I cannot 
meddle with, as to mending it ; and the musical 
world have been so long accustomed to Ram- 
say's words, that a different song, though posi- 
tively superior, would not be so well received. 
I am not fond of choruses to songs, so 1 have 
not made one lor the foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 

DAINTY DAVIE t 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her gay, green spreading; bowers. 

See Poevis, p. 69. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, 
is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's 
set of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum, they have drawled 
out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which 
is **** nonsense. Four lines of song, and four 
of chorus is the way. 

^ This song, certainly beautiful, would appear to 
more advantage without the chorus ; as is indeed the 
case with several other songs of our author. E. 

f Gloamin — twilight; pro!)ably from glooming. A 
beautiful poetical word, which ought to be adopted 
in England. A gloamin shot, a twilight interview. 

i Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch song, 
from which Burns has taken nothing but the title and 
the measure. £. 



LETTERS, 



307 



No. XXXVIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edirihurgh, \st Sept., 1793. 
My Dear Sir, 

Since writing you last, I have received half a 
dozen songs, with which I am delighted beyond 
expression. The humor and fancy of Whistle, 
and rilcome to you, my Lad. will render it nearly 
as great a favorite as Dtcucan Gray. Come, let 
me take thee to my breast, Adov)tt winding Nith, 
and By Allan Stream, See, are full of imagina- 
tion and feeling, and sweetly suit the airs for 
which they are intended. Had I a Cave on 
some wild distant shore, is a striking and affect- 
ing composition. Our friend, to whose story it 
refers, read it with a swelling heart, I assure 
you. The union we are now forming, I think, 
can never be broken ; these songs of yours will 
descend with the music to the latest posterity, 
and will be fondly cherished so long as genius, 
taste, and sensibility exist in our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious, I think 
it right to enclose a list of all the favors I have to 
ask of her — no fewer than twenty and three I I 
have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many 
as It is probable he will attend to; most of the 
remaining airs would puzzle the English poet 
not a little; they are of that peculiar measure 
and rythm, that they must be familiar to him 
who write for them. 



No. XXXIX. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept., 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any 
exertion in my power is heartily at your service. 
But one thing I must hint to you; the very 
name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your 
publication, so get a verse from him now and 
then; though I have no objection, as well as I 
can. to bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, un- 
taught and untutored by art. For this reason, 
many musical compositions, particularly where 
much of the merit lies in counterpoint, however 
they may transport and ravish the ears of you 
connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise 
than merely as melodious din. On the other 
hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with 
many little melodies, which the learned musi- 
cian despises as silly and insipid. I do not 
know whether the old air. Hey tuitie taittie, 
may rank among this number : but well 1 
know that, with F'razer's hautboy, it has often 
filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, 
which I have met with in many places of Scot- 
land, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the 
battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my 
solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of 
enthusiasm on the theme of Liberty and Inde- 
pendence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish 
ode. fitted to the air, that one might suppose to 
be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his he- 
roic followers on that eventful morning. >*= 

* Here followed Bruce's address, as given in the 
Poems, p. 70. 

This noble strain was conceived by onr poet dur- 
ing a storm among the wilds of Glen-Ken in Gallo- 
way. 



So may God ever defend the cause of truth 
and Liberty, as he did that day I — Amen. 

P. S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas 
of some other struggles of the same nature, not 
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you 
will find in the Museum ; though I am afraid 
that the air is not what will entitle it to a place 
in your elegant selection. 



No. XL. 
TO THE SAME. 

September, 1793. 

I dare say, my dear Sir, that you will begin 
to think my correspondence is persecution. No 
matter, I can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby- 
horse ; which though otherwise a simple sort 
of harmless idiotical beast enough, has yet this 
blessed headstrong property, that when once it 
has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets 
so enamoured with the finkle-gin-gle, tinkle- 
gingle, of its own bells, that it is sure to run 
poor pilgarlic, the bedlam-jockey, quite beyond 
any useful point or post in the common race of 
man. 

The following song I have composed for 
Oran Gaoil, the Highland air that you tell me 
in your last, you have resolved to give a place to 
in your book. I have this moment finished the 
song, so you have it glowing from the mint. If 
it suit you, well ! — if not, 'tis also well ! 

Behold the hour, the boat arrives ; 
Thou goeet, ttiou darling of my heart! 

See Poems, p. 70. 



No. XLL 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 5th September, 1793. 
I believe it is generally allowed that the 
greatest modesty is the sure attendant of the 
greatest merit. While you are sending me ver- 
ses that even Shakspeare might be proud to 
own, you speak of them as if they were ordi- 
nary productions? Your heroic ode is to me 
the noblest C(jrnposition of the kind in the Scot- 
ti.-:h language. I happened to dine yesterday 
with a party of our friends, to whom I read it. 
They were all charmed with it ; entreated me 

j to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated 
the idea of giving it a tune so totally devoid of 
interest or grandeur as Hey tuitie taittie. As- 
suredly your partiality for this tune must arise 
from the ideas associated in your mind by the 
tradition concerning it ; for I never heard any 
person, and I have conversed again and again, 
with the greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs, I 

j say I never heard any one speak of it as worthy 

I of notice. 



308 



LETTERS 



I have been running over the whole hundred 
airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and I 
think Lewie Gordmi, is most happily adapted to 
your ode ; at least with a very slight variation 
of the fourth line, which I shall presently sub- 
mit to you. There is in Lewie Gordon more of 
the grand than the plamtive, particularly when 
it is sung whh a degree of spirit which your 
words would oblige the singer to give it. I 
would have no scruple about substituting your 
ode in the room of Lewxe Gordon, which has 
neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the poe- 
try that characterize your verses. Now the 
variation I have to suggest upon the last line 
of each verse, the only line too short for the air, 
is as follows : 

Verse 1st) Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains —chiuns and slaverie. 

3d, Let him, let kirn turn and flie. 

4th, Let him bravely follow me. 

5f A, But they shall, they shall be free. 

6lh, Let us, /et us do or die! 

If you connect each line of your own verse, 
I do not think you will find that either the sen- 
timent or the expression loses any of its ener- 
gy. The only line which I dislike in the 
■whole of the song is. " Welcome to your gory 
bed." Would not another word be preferable 
to welcome ? In your next 1 will expect to be 
informed whether you agree to what I have 
proposed. The little alterations I submit with 
the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made 
for Oran Gaoil will ensure celebrity to the 



No. XLII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I have received your list, my dear Sir, and 
here go my observations on it.* 

Down the burn Davie. I have this moment 
tried an alteration, leaving out the last half of 
the third stanza, and the first half of the last 
stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way, 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was ay the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew 1" 
Quoih Mary, "Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you."t 

Thro^ the wood laddie — I am decidedly of 
opinion that both in this, and There'll never be 
•peace till Jamie comes hame, the second or high 
part of the tune, being a repetition of the first 
part an octave higher, is only for instrumental 
music, one would be much better omitted in 
singing. 

* Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication. 
In his remarks, the Bard proceeds in order, and goes 
through the whole ; but on many of them he mere- 
ly signifies his approbation. All his remarks of any 
importance are presented to the reader. 

t This alteration Mr. Thomson has adopted (or at 
least intended to adopt.) instead of the last stanza 
of the original song, which is objectionable, in point 
of delicacy. E. 



Cowden hnowes. Remember in your index 
that the soiVg in pure English to this tune, be- 
ginning, 

" When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 

is the production of Crawford. Robert was his 
Christian name. 

Laddie lie Tiear me, must lie by me, for sonie 
time. I do not know the air ; and until I am 
complete master of a tune, in my own singing 
(such as it is,) I can never compose for it. My 
way is : I consider the poetic sentiment corres- 
pondent to my idea of the musical expression ; 
then choose my theme ; begin one stanza ; 
when that is composed, which is generally the 
most difficult part of the business, I walk out, 
sit down now and then, look out for objects in 
nature around me that are in unison and har- 
mony with the cogitations of my fancy, and 
Workings of my bosom ; humming every now 
and then the air, with the verses I have framed. 
When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I re- 
tire to the solitary fire side of my study, and 
there commit my effusions to paper ; swinging 
at intervals on the hind legs of my elbow chair, 
by way of calling forth my own critical stric- 
tures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at 
home, is almost invariably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Gill Morice, I am for leaving out. It is a 
plaguy length ; the air itself is never sung ; and 
its place can well be supplied by one or two 
songs for fine airs that are not in your list. For 
instance, Crag ieburn- wood and Boy^s Wife. 
The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty; 
and the last has high merit, as well as great 
celebrity. I have the original words of a song 
for the last air, in the hand-writing of the lady 
who composed it ; and they are superior to any 
edition of the song which the public has yet 
seen.* 

Highland Laddie. The old set will please a 
mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Italian- 
ized one. There is a third, and what Oswald 
calls the old Highland Laddie, which pleases 
more than either of them. It is sometimes 
called Gingla7i Johnnie, it being the air of an 
old humorous tawdry song of that name. You 
will find it in the Museum, / hae been at 
Crookieden, &c. I would advise you, in this 
musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to 
the muses for inspiring direction ; and in the 
mean time, waiting for this direction, bestow 
a libation to Bacchus ; and there is no doubt 
but you will hit on a judicious choice. Proba- 
turn Est. 

Auld Sir Simo7t, I must beg leave to leave 
out, and put in its place The Quaker's Wife. 

Blithe hae I been o'er the Hill, is one of the 
finest songs ever I made in my life ; and be- 
sides, is composed on a young lady, positively 
the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. 
As I purpose giving you the names and desig- 
nations of all my heroines, to appear in some 
future edition of your work, perhaps half a cen- 
tury hence, you must certainly include The 
bonniest Loss in a' the warld, in your collection. 

Dai7itie Davie, I have heard sung, nineteen 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, 
and always with the chorus to the low part of 

* This song, so much admired by our Bard, will be 
I found at the bottom of p. 324. E. 



LETTERS. 



309 



the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so 
much as your opinion on this subject. If it will 
not suit as I proposed, we will lay two of the 
stanzas together, and then make the chorus 
loilow. 

Fee him Father — I enclose you Frazer's set 
of this tune when he plays it slow ; in fact, he 
makes it the language of despair. I shall here 
give you two stanzas in that style, merely to 
try if it will be any improvement. Were it 
possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos 
•which Frazer gives it in playing, it would make 
an admirably pathetic song. I do not give these 
verses for any merit they have. 1 composed 
them at the time in which i^atie Allan s mither 
died, that was about the back o' midnight ; and 
by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had 
overset every mortal in company, except the 
hautbois and the muse. 

Thou has! left me ever, Jamie, thou bast left me ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast leit me ever. 
See Poems., p. 70. 

Jockey and Jennie, 1 would discard, and in 
its place would put There''s nae luck about the 
house, which has a very pleasant air, and which 
is positively the finest love ballad in that style 
in the Scottish, or perhaps any other language. 
Whe7i she came beti she bobbit, as an air, is more 
beautiful than either, and, in the atidante way, 
would unite with a charming sentimental 
ballad. 

Saw ye my Father — is one of my greatest fa- 
vorites. The evening before last, I wandered 
out, and began a tender song, in what I think 
is its native style. I must premise, that the old 
way, and the way to give most effect, is to have 
no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but to 
burst at once into the pathos. Every country 
girl sings — Saw ye my father, &c. 

My song is but just begun, and I should like 
before I proceeded, to know your opinion of it. 
I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, 
but it may easily be turned into correct Eng- 
lish.* 



Todlin Hame. Urbani mentioned an idea of 
his, which has long been mine ; that this air is 
highly susceptible of pathos ; accordingly, you 
will soon hear him at your concert try it to a 
song of mine in the Museum ; Ye banks and 
braes o' bonnie Doon. 

One song more, and I have done : Atild lang 
syne. The air is but mediocre ; but the follow- 
ing song, the old song of the olden times, and 
which has never been in print, nor even in 
manuscript, until I took it down from an old 
man's singing, is enough to recommend any 
air.t 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acqnaintance be forgot. 
And never brought to min'1 

See Poems, p. 70. 

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a num- 
ber of ballads, properly so called. Gill M or ice, 
Tranent Muir, M'Fherson's Farewell Battle 

* This song begins, — 

*' Where are the joys I hae met in the morning." 

E. 
f This song of the olden time is excellent. It is 
worthy of our bard. 



of Sheriff Muir, or, IVe ran and they ran, (I 
know the author of this charming ballad, and 
his history), Hardiknute, Barbara Allan, (1 can 
furtiish a finer set of this tune than any that has 
yet appeared,) and besides, do you know that I 
really have the old tune to which The Cherry 
and the Slae was sung ; and which is mentioned 
as a well known air in Scotland's Complaint, a 
book published before poor Mary's days. It 
was then called The Banks o' Helicon ; an old 
poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. 
You will see all this in Tytler's History of 
Scottish Music. The tune, to a learned ear, 
may have no great merit ; but it is a great cu- 
riosity. I have a good many original things of 
this kind. 



No. XLIIL 
TO THE SAME. 

September, 1793. 

I am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases 
you so much. Your idea, "honor's bed," is, 
though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea ; so, if 
you please, we will let the line stand as it is. 
I have altered the song as follows : 

BANNOCK-BURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led. 

See Poems, p. 70. 

N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from 
the common stall edition of Wallace. 

"A false usurper sinks in every foe. 
And liberty returns with every blow." 
A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you 
had enough of my correspondence. The post 
goes, and my head aches miserably. One com- 
fort ! — I suffer so much, just now, in this world, 
for last night's joviality, that 1 shall escape scot- 
free for it in the world to come. — Amen. 



No. XLIV. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
I2th September, 1793. 

A thousand thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
your observations on the list of my songs. I 
am happy to find your ideas so much in unison 
with my own, respecting the generality of the 
airs, as well as the verses. About some of them 
we differ, but there is no disputing about hob- 
by-horses. I shall not fail to profit by the re- 
marks you make ; and to re-consider the whole 
with attention. 

Dainty Davy^ must be sung two stanzas to- 
gether, and then the chorus: 'tis the proper 
way. I agree with you that there may be 
something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in 
the air of Fee him Father, when performed with 
feeling : but a tender cast may be given almost 
to any lively air, if you sing it very slowly, ex- 
pre.ssively, and with serious words, I am, 
however, clearly and invariably for retaining 
the cheerful tunes joined to their own humor- 
ous verses, wherever the verses are passable. 



310 



LETTERS 



But the sweet song for Fee him Father, which 
yoii began about the back of midnight, I will 
publish as an additional one. Mr. James Bal- 
four, the king of good fellows, and the best 
singer of the lively Scottish ballads that ever 
existed, has charmed thousands o^ companies 
with Fee him Father, and with Todlin Hame, 
also, to the old words, which never should be 
disunited from either of these airs. — Some Bac- 
chanals I would wish to discard. Fie, lets a' to 
the Bridal, for instance, is so coarse and vulgar, 
that I Think it fit only lo be sung in a company 
of drunken colliers ; and Saw ye my Father, 
appears to me both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic 
ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, 
that a prudent general would avoid saying any 
thing to his soldiers which would tend to make 
death more frightful than it is. Gory presents 
a disagreeable image to the mind, and to tell 
them, *' Welcome to your gory bed." seems 
rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding 
the alternative which follows. 1 have shown 
the song to three friends of excellent taste, and 
each of them objected to this line, which em- 
boldens me to use the freedom of bringing it 
again under your notice. I would. suggest, — 

" Now prepare for honor's bed, 
Or for glorious victorie." 



No. XLV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

" Who .shall decide when doctors disagree ?" 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter 
it. Your proposed alterations would, in my 
opinion, make it tame. 1 am exceedingly ob- 
liged to you for putting me on reconsidering it, 
as I think I have much improved it. Instead 
of "soger! hero?" I will have it, "Caledo- 
nian! on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to 
the world, some way or other, it shall go as it 
is. At the same time, it will not in the least 
hurt me should you leave it out altogether, and 
adhere to your first intention of adopting Lo- 
gan's verses.* 

* Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted this 
song (if it may be so called,) as the bard presented it 
to him. He has attached it to the air of Letoie Gor- 
don, and perhaps among the existing airs he could 
not find a better ; but the poetry is suited to a much 
higher strain of music, and may employ the genius 
of some Scottish Handel, if any such should in fu- 
ture arise. The reader will have observed, that 
Burns adopted the alterations proposed by his friend 
and correspondent in former instances, with great 
readiness: perhaps, indeed, on all indifferent occa- 
sions. In the present instance, however, he rejected 
them, though repeatedly urged, witli determined re- 
solution. With every respect for the judgment of 
Mr. Thomson and his friends, we may be satisfied 
that he did so. He who, in prt-paring for an engage- 
ment, attempts lo witlidraw his imagination fiom 
images of death, will probably liave but imperfect 
success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of 
battle, where the liberties of a kini^dom are at issue. 
Of such men the conquerors at Bannockburn were 
not composed. Brace's troops were inured to war, 
and familiar with all its sufferinsfs and dangers. 
On the eve of that memorable day, their spirits 
were, without doubt, wound up to a pitch of enthu- 
siasm, suited to the occasion : a pitch of enthusiasm 
at which danger becomes attractive, and the most 



■ have finished my song to Saw ye my Father, 
and in English, as you will see. That there is 
a syllable too much for the expressio7i of the 
air; is true ; but allow me to say, that the mere 
dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and 
a quaver, is not a great matter; however, in 
that I have no pretensions to cope in judgment 
with you. Of the poetry I speak with confi- 
dence ; but the music is a business where 1 hint 
my ideas with the utmost diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular: my advice is, to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. Here they are — 

FAIR JENNY. 

See p. 308. 

Tune—^' Saw ye my Father." 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song? 

■See Poems, p. 70. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! the post goes, so I 
shall defer some other remarks until more 
leisure. 



No. XLVL 



TO THE SAME. 

September, 1793. 
I have been turning over some volumes of 
songs to find verses whose measures would 
suit the airs, for which you have allotted me to 
find English songs. 

For Muirland IVillie, you have, in Ramsay's 
Tea- Table, an excellent song, beginning, "Ah! 
why those tears in Nelly's eyes." As for The 
Collier's Dochter, take the following old Bac- 
chanal. 

Deluded Swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee. 

See Poems, p. 71. 

The faulty line in Logan Water, I mend thus: 
" How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry 7" 

terrific forms of death are no longer terrilde. Such 
a strain of sentiment, this heroic " welcome" may 
be snpposed well calculated to elevate — to raise 
their hearts high above fear, and to nerve tlieir arms 
to the utmost pitch ot mortal ex<>tlion. These obser- 
vations might be illustrated and supported by a re- 
ference to the martial poetry of all nations, from the 
spirit-slirrmg strains of Tyrtaus to tiie war-song of 
General Wolfe. Mr. Thomson's observation, that, 
" Welcome to your gory bed, is a discouraging ad- 
dress." seems not sulficiently considered. Perhaps, 
indeed, it may be admitted, that the term ^ory is 
somewhat objectionable, not on account of its pre- 
senting a frightful, but a disagreeable image to the 
mind. But a great poet, uttering his conceptions on 
an interesting occa.^ion. seeks always to present a 
picture that is vivid, and is uniformly disposed to 
sacrifice the delicacies of taste on the altar of the 
imagination. And it is the privilege of superior ge- 
nius, by producing a new association, to elevate 
expressions that were originally low, and thus to 
triumph over the deficiencies of language. In hovir 
many instances might this be exempliiied from the 
works of our immortal Shakspeare: 

" Who would fardels bear, 
To groan and sweat under a weary life ; — 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin /" 
It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such reflec- 
tions is probably sufficient. 



LETTERS. 



311 



The song otherwise will pass. As to N'Gre- 

goira Rua Ruth, you will see a song of mine to 

It. with a set of the air, superior to yours, in the 

Museum, Vol. ii, p. 181. The song begins, — 

"Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are down- 
right Irish. If they were like the Banks of 
Banna, for instance, though really Irish, yet in 
the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. 
Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say 
you to twenty-five of them in an additional 
number? We could easily find this quantity 
of charming airs : I will take care that you shall 
not want songs ; and I assure you that you will 
find it the most saleable of the whole. If you 
do not approve of Roy' » li^ife, for the music's 
sake, we shall not insert it. Deiltak the Wars, 
is a charming song ; so is, Saw ye my Pei^gy. 
There's na luck about the Rouse, well deserves 
a place. I cannot say that, 0' er the Hills and 
Far Awa, strikes me as equal to your selection. 
This is no mine ain House, is a great favorite 
air of mine ; and if you will send me your set 
of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. 
What is your opinion of — I ha&laid a Herrin in 
Sawt ? 1 like it much. Your Jacobite airs are 
pretty ; and there are many others of the same 
kind, pretty ; but you have not room for them. 
You cannot. I think, insert Fie, let us a' to the 
Bridal, to any other words than its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this rea- 
son, Fie, giememy Cogie, Sirs, Fie, let us a' to 
the Bridal, with several others of that cast, are 
to me highly pleasing ; while. Saw ye my Fa- 
ther, or Saw ye my Mother, delights me with its 
descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, — 
Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, pleases 
myself so much that I cannot try my hand at 
another song to the air; so I shall not attempt 
it. I know you will laugh at all this: but, 
*' Ilka man wears his belt his ain gait.'' 



No. XLVII. 
TO THE SAME. 

October, 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was in- 
deed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Er- 
skine I* The recollection that he was a coadju- 
tor in your publication, has till now scared me 
from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on 
composing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the 
air of the Quaker's Wife ; though, by the by, 
an old Highland gentleman, and a deep anti- 
quarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air. and known 
by the name o( Leiger 'm choss. The following 
verses I hope will please you as an English 
Eong to the air. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair. 
Thine, my lovely Nancy. 

See Poems, p. 71. 

Your objection to the English song I pro- 
posed for John Anderson my jo, is certainly 
just. The following is by an old acquaintance 

* The Honorable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kel- 
ly, whose nielancholy death Mr. Thomson had com- 
municated in an excellent letter, which he has sup- 
pressed. 



of mine, and I think has merit. The song was 
never in print, which I think is so much in 
your favor. The more original good poetry 
your collection contains, it certainly has so 
much the more merit. 

SONG. 

BY GAVIN TURNBULL. 
O, condescend, dear charming maid, 

My wretched state lo view ; 
A tender swain to love betray'd, 

And sad despair, by you. 
While here, all melancholy, 

My passion I deplore, 
Yet, urged by stern, resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 
I heard oflove, and with disdain, 

The urchin's power denied ; 
I lau^h'd at every lover's pain. 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 
But how my state is alter'd". 

Those happy clays are o'er; 
For all thy uurelentmg hate, 

I love thee more and more. 
O, yield, illustrious beauty, yield, 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And tliough victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 
Let generous pity warm thee, 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And, urateful, I shall bless thee still. 

And love thee more and mure. 



The following address of Turnbull's to the 
Nightingale, will suit as an English song to the 
air, There was a lass and she was fair. By the 
by, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS., 
which I can command, if you like his manner. 
Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may 
be prejudiced in his favor, but I like some of 
his pieces very much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

AY G. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove. 

That ever tried the plaintive strain. 
Awake thy tender tale oflove, 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 
For though the muses deign to aid, 

And teach him smoothly to complain. 
Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, 

Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 
All day. with fashion's gaudy sons, 

In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; 
Their tales approves, and still she shun 

The notes of her forsaken swain. 
When evpiiine shades obscure the sky. 

And bring the solemn hours again, 
Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. 

And sootiie a poor forsaken swain. 



I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, 
which would go charmingly to Lewie Gordon. 



LAURA. 

BY G. TURNBULL. 
Let me wander where 1 will. 
By shady wood or winding rill. 
Where the sweetest May-born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy sttli. 



312 



LETTERS 



If at rosy dawn I chuse, 
To indulge the smiling mnso ; 
If I court some cool retreat, 
To avoid the noon-tide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray, 
Through unfrequented wilds I stray 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 
When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep compelling rod, 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise; 
While with boundless joy I rove, 
Thro' the fairy-land of love ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



The rest of your letter I will answer at some 
other opportunity. 



No. XLVIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURN.S. 

1th November, 1793. 
My Good Sir, 

After so long a silence, it gave me peculiar 
pleasure to recognize your well known hand, for 
I had begun to be apprehensive that all was not 
well with you. I am happy to find, however, 
that your silence did not proceed from that 
cause, and that you have got among the ballads 
once more. 

I have to thank you for your English song to 
Leiger 'm choss, which I think extremely good, 
aI:hough the colouring is warm. Your friend 
Mr. Turnbull's songs have, doubtless, consider- 
able merit ; and as you have the command of his 
manuscripts, I hope you will find out some that 
will answer, as English songs, to the airs yet 
unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1793. 
Tell me how you like the following verses 
to the tune of Jo Janet. 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 
Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 

-See Poems, p. 71. 



Wilt thou be my dearie * 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart. 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

See Poems, p. S6. 



No, L. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, llth April, 1794. 
My Dear Sir, 

Owing to the distress of our friend for the 
loss of his child, at the time of his receiving 
your admirable but melancholy letter, I had 
not an opportunity, till lately, of perusing it.* 

* A letter to Mr. Cunningham, No. CL. of the Gen- 
eral Correspondence. 



How sorry I am to find Burns saying, *' Canst 
thou not minister to a mind diseased?" while 
he is delighting others from one end of the isl- 
and to the other. Like the hypochondriac who 
went to consult a physician upon his case — Go, 
says, the doctor, and see the famous Carlini, 
who keeps all Paris in good humor. Alas ! 
Sir, replied the patient, I am that unhappy Car- 
lini ! 

Your plan for our meeting together pleases 
me greatly, and I trust that by some means or 
other it will soon take place ; but your Baccha- 
nalian challenge almost frightens me, for I am 
a miserable weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion 
of his talents. He has just begun a sketch 
from your Cotter'' s Saturday Night, and if it 
pleases himself in the design, he will probably 
etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral 
and humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by 
any artist living. He fails a little in giving 
beauty and grace to his females, and his color- 
ing is sombre, otherwise his paintings and draw- 
ings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the Sutor's Dochter, and 
will consider whether it shall be added to the 
last volume ; your verses to it are pretty : but 
your humorous English song, to suit Jo Janet, 
is inimitable. What think you of the air, 
Within a mile of Edinburgh ? It has always 
struck me as a modern imitation, but it is said 
to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I 
believe I must include it. The verses are little 
better than namby pamby. Do you consider it 
worth a stanza or two ? 



No, LI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

31ay, 1794. 
Mt Dear Sir, 

I return you the plates, with which I am 
highly pleased ; I would humbly propose in- 
stead of the younker knitting stockings, to put 
a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of 
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
subject I have ever met with, and though an 
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the Bu- 
rin, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I 
got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd ; and 
he pronounces Allan a most original artist of 
great excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's chusing 
my favorite poem for his subject, to be one of 
the highest compliments I have ever received. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up 
in France, as it will put an entire stop to our 
work. Now, and for six or seven months 1 
shall be quite in song, as you shall see by and by. 
I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady 
Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls 
The Banks of Cree. C reels a beautiful roman- 
tic stream ; and as her Ladyship is a particular 
friend of mine, I have written the following 
song to it. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the i;len, and here the bower, 
All underneath the buchen Hh:ule. 

See Poems, p. 71. 



LETTERS. 



313 



No. LII. 

TO THE SAME. 

July, 1794. 
Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 
work to be at a dead stop, until the alHes set 
our modern Orpheus at Uberty from the savage 
thraldom of democratic discords ? Alas the 
day ! And wo is me ! That auspicious period 
pregnant with the happiness of millions.* — 

» * It * It. -Hf 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued and much-honored 
friend of mine, Mr. Graham, of Fintry. I 
wrote on the blank side of the title-page the 
following address to the young lady. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immort<il lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Sec Poems, p. 71. 



MR 



No. LIII. 
THOMSON TO MR. 



BURNS, 



Edinburgh, \Olh August, 1794. 
My Dear Sir. 

I owe you an apology for having so long de- 
layed to acknowledge the favor of your last. I 
fear it will be as you say, 1 shall have no more 
songs from Pleyel till France and we are 
friends; but nevertheless, I am very desirous lo 
be prepared with the poetry ; and as the season 
approaches in which your muse of Coila visits 
you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be frequently 
gratified with the result of your amorous and 
tender interviews .' 



No. LIV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

30th August, 1794. 

The last evening, as T was straying out, and 
thinking of. O'er the hillft and far away, I spun 
the following stanzas for it; but whether my 
spmning will deserve to be laid up in store, like 
the precious thread of the silk-worm, or brush- 
ed to the devil, like the vile manufacture of the 
spider. I leave, my dear Sir, to your usual can- 
did criticism. I was pleased with several lines 
in it at first : but I own that now it appears 
rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see wheth- 
er it be worth a critique. We have many sai- 
lor songs, but as far as 1 at present recollect, 
they are mostly the efli'usions of the jovial sai- 
lor, not the wailings of his love-lorn mistress. 
1 must here make one sweet exception — Sweet 
Annie frae the sea-beach came. Now for the 
song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad 1 

See Poems, p. 72. 
I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it 
in the spirit of Christian meekness. 

* \ pinion of thi< lotter has been left out for 
reasons that will easily be imagined. 



No. LV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, \6th September, 1794. 

My Dear Sir, 

You have anticipated my opinion of On the 
seas and far away ; 1 do not think it one of 
your very happy productions, though it certain- 
ly contains stanzas that are worthy of all accep- 
tation. 

The second is the least to my liking, partic- 
ularly " Bullets, spare my only joy !" Confound 
the bullets ! It might perhaps, be objected to 
the third verse, "At the starless midnight 
hour," that it has too much grandeur of ima- 
gery, and that greater simplicity of thought 
would have better suited the character of a sai- 
lor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be remem- 
bered, is of the brisk, cheerful kind. Upon the 
whole, therefore, in my humble opinion, the 
song would be better adapted to the tune, if it 
consisted only of the first and last verses with 
the choruses. 



No. LVI. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 



September, 1794. 

I shall withdraw my On the seas and far 
away, altogether: it is unequal, and unworthy 
the work. Making a poem is like begetting a 
son : you cannot know whether you have a 
wise man or a fool, until you produce him to 
the world to try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring of 
my brain, abortions and all : and, as such, pray 
look over them, and forgive them, and burn* 
them. I am flattered at your adopting Ca' the 
youies to the knotres, as it was owing to me that 
ever it saw the light. About seven years ago I 
was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow 
of a Clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung it 
charmingly ; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke 
took it down from his singmg. When I gave 
it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song 
and mended others, but still it will not do for 
you. In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I 
tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, following 
up the idea of the chorus, which I would pre- 
serve. Here it is, with all its crudities and im- 
perfections on its head. 



Ca'' the yowes to the hwwes, 

Ca"* them where the heather prows. 

See Poems, p. 72. 

I shall give you my opinion of your other 
newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 

* This Virgi'.ian order of the poet should, I think, 
he disobeyed with respect to the song in question, 
the second st-inzu excepted. JSTote by Mr. Tkovtson. 

Doctors d ffer. The objection to the second stan- 
za does not strike ♦.he Editor. E. 



314 



LETTERS 



No. LVII. 
TO THE SAME. 

September, 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song called 
Onagh's Water-fall ? The air is charming, and 
I have often regretted the want of decent ver- 
ses to it. It is too much at least for my hum- 
ble rustic muse, to expect that every effort of 
hers shall have merit ; still 1 think that it is 
better to have mediocre verses to a favorite air, 
than none at all. On this principle I have all 
along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum; 
and as that publicaiion is at its last volume, I 
intend the following song to the air above-men- 
tioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may 
be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing 
before ladies. 

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. 

Sae flaxen were her rin.yileta, 
Her eye-brows of a darker hue, 

See Poevts, p. 72. 

Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting ; we are told that he 
frequently admired what the connoisseurs de- 
cried, and always without any hypocrisy confes- 
sed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste 
in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because 
people of undisputed and cultivated taste can 
find no merit in my favorite tunes. Still because 
I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I 
should deny myself that pleasure ? Many of 
our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me 
most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other 
judges would probably be showing disgust. 
For instance, I am just now making verses for 
Hothiemurchie' s Barit, an air which puts me in 
raptures ; and, in fact, unless I be pleased with 
the tune, I never can make verses to it. Here 
I have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I 
will pit against any of you. Rothiemurchie, he 
says, is an air both original and beautiful ; and 
on his recommendation 1 have taken the first 
part of the tune tor a chorus, and the fourth 
or last part for the song. I am but two stanzas 
deep in the work, and possibly you may think, 
and justly, that the poetry is as little worth 
your attention as the music* 

I have begun anew. Let me in this ae night. 
Do you think that we ought to retain the old 
chorus ? I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I 
do not altogether like the third line of the first 
stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I 
am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you 
have the denoument to be successful or other- 
wise ? should she " let him in," or not ? 

Did you not once propose The Sow's tail to 
Geordie, as an air for your work ? I am quite 
diverted with it ; but I acknowledge that is no 
mark of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it, which I meant to be in the alter- 
nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
together. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours I 

* In the nricinal, follow here two stanzas of a 
Bong, beginning '• Lassie wi' the lint-white locJts.-' i 



am afraid is rather burlesque for sentiment, else 
I had meant to have made you the hero and he- 
roine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, 
which I wrote the other day on a lovely young 
girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell 
was the physician who seemingly saved her 
from the grave ; and to him I address the fol- 
lowing. 

TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit 1 deny : 
You save fair Jessie from the grave 1 — 

An angel could not die. 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle ! 



No. LVIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now attend- 
ant upon her favorite poet, whose wood-notes 
wild are becoming as enchanting as ever. She 
says she Wis me best of a' , is one of the pleas- 
antest table-songs I have seen, and henceforth 
shall be mine when the song is going round. 
I'll give Cunningham a copy; he can more 
powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far from 
undervaluing your taste for the strathspey mu- 
sic ; on the contrary, I think it highly anima- 
ting and agreeable, and that some of the strath- 
speys, when graced with such verses as yours, 
will make very pleasing songs in the same way 
that rough Christians are tempered and softened 
by lovely woman ; without whom, you know, 
they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the Sow\t Tail, partic- , 

ularly as your proposed verses to it are so ex- \ 

tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, 
is a name only fit for burlesque composition. 
Mrs. Thomson's name fKatherine) is not at all 
poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and make 
the other Jamie, or any other that sounds agree- 
ably. 

Your Ca' the ewes is a precious little morceau. 
Indeed, 1 am perfectly astonished and charmed 
with the endless variety of your fancy. Here 
let me ask you, whether you never seriously 
turned your thoughts upon dramatic writing ? 
That is a field worthy of your genius, m 
which it might shine forth in all its splendor. 
One or two successful pieces upon the London 
stage would make your fortune. The rage at 
present is for musical dramas : few or none of 
those which have appeared since the Duenna, 
possess much poetical merit : there is little in 
the conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to 
interest the audience. They are chiefly vehi- 
cles for music and pageantry. I think you 
might produce a comic opera in three acts, 
which would live by the poetry, at the same 
time that it would be proper to take every as 
sistance from her tuneful sister. Part of the 
songs, of course, would be to our favorite Scot- 
tish airs ; the rest might be left to the London 
composer — Storacc for Drury-lane, or Shield 



LETTERS, 



315 



for Covent- Garden : both of them very able and 
popular musicians. 1 believe that interest and 
manoeuvring are often necessary to have a 
drama brought on ; so it may be with the nam- 
by pamby tribe of flowery scribblers ; but were 
you to address Mr. Sheridan himself by letter, 
and send him a dramatic piece, I am persuaded 
he would, lor the honor of genius, give it a fair 
and candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding 
these hints upon your consideration.* 



No. LIX. 
TO THE SAME. 

Edinburfrh, Uth October, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted to the 
re-examination of the Scottish colleciions. I 
have read, and sung, and fiddled, and consid- 
ered, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. 
The few airs I have added are enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the 
songs I expected from him. which are in general 
elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of a 
London collection of Scottish airs and songs, 
just published by Mr. Ritson, an Englishman ? 
1 shall send you a copy. His introductory es- 
say on the subject is curious, and evinces great 
reading and research, but does not decide the 
question as to the origin of our melodies ; though 
he shows clearly that Mr. Tytler, in his ingenious 
dissertation, has adduced no sort of proof of the 
hypothesis he wished to establish ; and that his 
classification of the airs according to the eras, 
■when they were composed, is mere fancy and 
conjecture. On John Pinkerton, Esq., he has 
no mercy ; but consigns him to damnation ! 
He snarls at my publication, on the score of 
Pindar being engaged to write some songs for 
it ; uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be in- 
ferred, that the songs of Scottish writers had 
been sent a packing to make room for Peter's ! 
Of you he speaks with some respect, but gives 
you a passing hit or two, for daring to dress up 
a little, some old foolish songs for the Museum. 
His sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, 
from the oldest collections and best authorities : 
many of them, however, have such a strange 
aspect, and are so unlike the sets which are 
sung by every person of taste, old or young, in 
town or country, that we can scarcely recognize 
the features of our favorites. By going to the 
oldest collections of our music, it does not follow 
that we find the melodies in their original state. 
These melodies had been preserved, we know 
not how long, by oral communication, before 
being collected and printed ; and as diflferent 
persons sing the same air very differently, ac- 
cording to their accurate or confused recollec- 
tions of it, so even supposing the first collectors 
to have possessed the industry, the taste, and 
discernment to choose the best they could hear, 
(which is far from certain,) still it must evi- 
dently be a chance, whether the collections ex- 
hibit any of the melodies in the state they were 
first composed. In selecting the melodies for 
my own collection, I have been as much guided 
by the living as by the dead. Where these dif- 

* Our bard had before receivfd the same advice, 
and certainly took it so fnr imo consideration, as to 
have cast about for a sulgect. E. 



fered, I preferred the sets that appeared to me 
the most simple and beautiful, and the most ge- 
rally approved : and, without meaning any com- 
pliment to my own capability of choosing, or 
speaking of the pains I have taken, I flatter 
myself that my sets will be found equally freed 
from vulgar errors on the hund, and affected 
graces on the other. 



No. LX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
\9lh October, 1794. 
My Dear Friend, 

By this morning's post I have your list, and, 
in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at 
more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your own town by to-day's fly, 
and I wish you would call on him and take his 
opinion in general : you know his taste is a 
standard. He will return here again in a week 
or two; so, please do not miss asking for him. 
One thing I hope he will do, persuade you to 
adopt my favorite C rag ie-hum- wood, in your 
selection ; it is as great a favorite of his as of 
mine. The lady on whom it was made, is one 
of the finest women in Scotland ; and in fact 
( entre nous } is in a manner to me, what 
Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, or 
friend, or what you will in the guileless simpli- 
city of Platonic love. ( Now don't put any of 
your squinting constructions on this, or have 
any clish-maciaver about it among our acquaint- 
ances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend 
you are indebted for many of your best songs 
of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin- 
horse routine of existence, could inspire a man 
with life, and love, and joy — could fire him 
with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, 
equal to the genius of your book ? No ! no ! — 
Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in 
song ; to be in some degree equal to your di- 
viner airs ; do you imagine that I fast and pray 
for the celestial emanation ? Tout au contrarie! 
1 have a glorious recipe ; the very one that for 
his own use was invented by the divinity of 
healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the 
flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen 
of admiring a fine woman ; and in proportion 
to the adorability of her charms, in the propor- 
tion you are delighted with my verses. The 
lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnas- 
sus ; and the witchery of her smile, the divin- 
ity of Helicon I 

To descend to business ; if you like my idea 
of When she cam ben she babbit, the following 
stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they 
were formerly when set to another air, may per- 
haps do instead of worse stanzas. 

SAW YE MY PHELY. 

O, saw ye my dear, my Pliely 1 
O, saw ye my dear, my Phtly 1 

See Poems, p. 73. 

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The 
Posie, (in the Museum) is my composition ; the 
air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice.* 

■* The Posie will be found in the Poems p. P5. This, 
and the other poems of which he speaks, liad ap- 
peared in Johnson's Museum, and Mr. T. had inqui- 
red whelhei they were our bard's. 



316 



LETTERS. 



It is well known in the West Country, but the 
old words are trash. By the by. take a look at the 
tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is 
the original from which Eosliii Castle is compo- 
sed. I'he second part in particular, for the first 
two or three bars, is exactly the old air. Strath- 
alleri's Lament is mine ; the music is by our 
right trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan 
Masterdon. Doiiocht-Head is not mine ; I 
would give ten pounds it were. It appeared 
first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and came to the 
editor of that paper with the Newcastle post- 
mark on it.* Whistle o'er the lave oU is mine ; 
the music is said to be by John Bruce, a cele- 
brated violin-player in Dumfries, about the be- 
ginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, 
who was an honest man, though a redwud 
Highlandman, constantly claimed it ; and by all 
the oldest musical people here, is believed, to 
be the author of it. 

Atidrew and his Cutty Gun. The song to 
which this is set in the Museum is mine, and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the 
Flower of Strathmore. 

How long a7id dreary is the night ! I met 
with some such words in a collection of songs 
somewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; and 
to please you, and to suit your favorite air, I 
have taken a stride or two across my room, and 
have arranged it anew, as you will find on the 
other page. 

SONG. 

How long and dreary is the night, 
When 1 am frae my dearie: 

-See Poems, p. 73. 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from 
your idea of the expression of the tune. There 
is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You 

*The reader will be curious to see this poem, so 
highly praised by Burns. Here it is. 

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head, f 

The snaw drives siielly turn' the dale; 
The Gfiber-lunzie tirls my snetk, 

And shivering, tells his waefu' tale ; 
♦'Cauld is the night, O let me in, 

And d nna let your minstrel fa'; 
And dinna let his winding sheet 

Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 

•• Full ninety winters hae 1 seen. 

And piped where gor-cocks whirring flew; 
And mony a day Ive danced, I ween, 

To lilts which from my drone I blew." 
My Eppie waked and soon she cried, 

' Get up. guidman, and let him in ; 
For weel ye ken live winter night 

Was short when he began his din.' 

My Eppie's voice O wow it's sweet, 

Even tlio' she Ijans and scaulds a wee ; 
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, 

O, haith, it's doubly dear to me ; 
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, 

I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame ; 
Yourbluid is thin, ye've lint the gate. 

Ye should nae stray sae far frae hame. 

" Nae hame have T," the minstrel said, 
" Sad party-strife o'erturn'd my ha'; 

And weeping ai tlie eve of life, 
I wander ihro' a wreath o' snaw." 

This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. 
The author need not be ashamed to own himself. It 
is worthy of Burns, or of Maciiiel. E. 

t A mountain in the North. 



cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to 
your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaint- 
ance, a noted performer, plays and sings at the 
same time so charmingly, that I shall never 
bear to see any of her songs sent into the world, 
as naked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done 
in his London collection.* 

These English songs gravel me to death. I 
have not that command of the language that 1 
have of my native tongue. 1 have been at Dun- 
can Gray, to dress it in English, but all I can 
do is deplorably stupid. For instance ; 



Let not woman e'er complain 
Of inconstancy in love ; 

See Poems, p. 73. 

Since the above, I have been out in the 
country, taking a dinner with a friend, where I 
met with the lady whom I mentioned in the 
second page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. 
As usual I got into song ; and returning home 
I composed the following : 

THE lover's morning SALUTE TO HIS 
MISTRESS. 

Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature ; 
Rosy mort) now lifts his eye,+t 

See Poems, p. 73. 

If you honor my verses by setting the air to 
them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it 
English enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East In- 
dian air, which you would swear was a Scottish 
one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gen- 
tleman who brought it over, is a particular ac- 
quaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy 
I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke 
has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into 
the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses 
I intend for it. 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 
The woods rejoiced the day. 

See Poems, p.73. 

I would be obliged to you if you would pro- 
cure me a sight of Ri;son's collection of English 
songs, which you mention in your letter. I 
will thank you for another information, and that 
as speedily as you please ; whether this miser- 
able drawling hotchpotch epistle has not com- 
pletely tired you of my correspondence ? 

* Mr. Ritson. 

+ From the fifth to the eleventh line of this song 
stood originally thus: 

Now lo the streaming fountain. 
Or up the heathy mountain, 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely wildly-wanton stray; 
In twining hazel bowers 
His lay the linnet pours ; 
The lav'rock, &c. 

X The last eight lines stood originally thus : 

When frae my Chloris parted. 

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, [my sky 
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast 

But when she charms my sight, 

In pride of beauty's light ; 

Wiien ihrougli my very heart 

Her bloomins: glories d:irt ; 
'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life, and joy. E. 



LETTERS. 



317 



No. LXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 21lh October, 1794. 

I am sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine 
poet can no more exist without his mistress 
than his meat. I wish I knew the adorable she 
whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so 
often enraptured the Scottish bard ! that I 
might drink her sweet health when the toast is 
going round. Cralgie-burn-wood, must cer- 
tainly be adopted into my family, since she is 
the object of the song ; but in the name of de- 
cency I must beg a new chorus- verse from you. 
O to be lying beyond thee, dearie, is perhaps a 
consummation to be wished, but will not do for 
singing in the company of ladies. The songs 
in your last will do you lasting credit, and suit 
the respective airs charmingly. I am perfectly 
of your opinion with respect to the additional 
airs. The idea of sending them into the world 
naked as they were born was ungenero\is. 
They must all be clothed and made decent by 
our friend Clark. 

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cun- 
ningham in sending you Ritson's Scottish col- 
lection. Permit me, therefore, to present you 
with his Enf^lish collection, which you will re- 
ceive by the coach. I do not find his historical 
essay on Scottish song interesting. Your an- 
ecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I am 
sure, be much more so. Allan has just sketch- 
ed a charming design from Maggie Lauder. 
She is dancing with such spirit as to electrify 
the piper, who seems almost dancing too, while 
he is playing with the most exquisite glee. I 
am much inclined to get a small copy, and to 
have it engraved in the style of Ritson's prints. 

P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say con- 
cerning Maggie Lauder ? Was she a real per- 
sonage, and of what rank ? You would surely 
spier for her if ye cad at Anstruther towJi. 



No. LXTL 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your 
present. It is a book of the utmost importance 
to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, 
&c., for your work. I intend drawing it up in 
the form of a letter to you, which will save me 
from the tedious, dull business of systematic ar- 
rangement Indeed, as all 1 have to say con- 
sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps 
of old songs, &c., it would be impossible to 
give the work a beginning, a middle, or an end, 
which the critics insist to be absolutely neces- 
sary in a work.* In my last I told you my ob- 
jections to the song you had selected for — My 
Lodging is on the cold ground. On my visit the 
other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic 
name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration,) 
she suggested an idea, which I, in my return 
from the visit, wrought into the following song. 

* It does not appear whether Burns completed these 
anecdotes, &c. Something of the kind (prol»ably 
the rude draughts,) wiis found amongst his papers, 
and appears in Appendix No. II. Note B. 



My Chloris, mark how erecn the groves, 
The primrose bunks how fair. 

See Poems, p. 73. 

How do you like the simplicity and tender- 
ness of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like your entering so candidly and so kind- 
ly into the story of Ma chere Amie. I assure 
you I was never more in earnest in my life, than 
in the account of that affair which I sent you in 
my last. — Conjugal love is a passion which I 
deeply feel, and highly venerate; but, some- 
how, it does not make such a figure in poesy 
as that other species of the passion, 

" Where love is liberty, and Nature law." 
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument 
of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but 
the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last 
has powers equal to all the intellectual modula- 
tions of the human soul. Still I am a very poet 
in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare 
and happiness of the beloved object is the first 
and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul ; 
and whatever pleasures I might wish for, or 
whatever might be the raptures they would give 
me, yet, if they interfere with that first princi- 
ple, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest 
price ; and justice forbids, and generosity dis- 
dains the purchase ; * • * * 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections, to pick out songs, 
of which the measure is something similar to 
what I want ; and, with a little alteration, so as 
to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give 
you them for your work. Where the songs 
have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have 
ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair 
one. A song, which, under the same first 
verse, you will find in Ramsay's Tea-Table 
Miscellany, I have cut down for an English 
dress to your Dainty Davie, as follows : 

SONG, 

Altered from an old English one. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay. 
See Poems, p. 74. 

You may think meanly of this, but take a 
look at the bombast original, and yon will be 
surprised that I have made so much of it. I 
have finished my song to Bothie-murchie^s 
Kant ; and you have Clarke to consult as to 
the set of the air for singing. 

LASSIE Wr THE LINT- WHITE LOCKS.* 

CHORUS. 
Lassie wV the lint-while locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

See Poems, p. 74. 

This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, 
well: if not, I will insert it in the Museum. 

I am out of temper that you should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as Deil tak the wars, to 

*■ In some of the MSS. the last stanza of this song 
runs thus : 

And should the howling wint'ry blast 
Disturb my lassie's niidnieht rest, 
I'll fauhl thee to my faithfu' breast, 
And comfort thee my dearie O. 



318 



LETTER S. 



the foolish old verses. You talk of the silliness 
of — Saw ye my father ; by heavens ! the odds 
is gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, though 
now pretty well modernized into the Scottish 
language, is originally, and in the early editions, 
a bungling low imitation of the Scottish man- 
ner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey; so has no 
pretensions to be a Scottish production. There 
is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in the 
Duenna, to this air, which is out of sight supe- 
rior to D'Urfrey's. It begins, — 

" When sable night, each drooping plant restoring." 

The air, if I understand the expression of it 
properly, is the very native language of simpli- 
city, tenderness and love. I have again gone 
over my song to the tune as follows.* 

Now for my English song to Nancy^s to the 
greenwood, &C. — 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling \ 

See Poems, p. 74. 

There is an air. The Caledonian Hunt's De- 
light, to which I wrote a song that you will find 
in Johnson. 

Ye hanks and braes o' honnie Doon ; this air, 
I think, might find a place among your hun- 
dred, as Lear saysof his knights. Do you know 
the history of the air ? It is curious enough. A 
good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, writer 
in your good town, a gentleman whom possibly 
you know, was in company with our friend 
Clarke ; and talking of Scottish music. Miller 
expressed an ardent ambition to be able to 
compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by 
way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys 
of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of 
rhythm; and he would infallibly compose a 
Scots air. Certain it is, that in a few days, 
Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, 
which Mr. Clarke with some touches and cor- 
rections, fashioned into the tune in question. 
Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black 
keys; but this account which I have just given 
you, Mr. Clarke informed me of several years 
ago. Now, to show you how diflicuit it is to 
trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it re- 
peatedly asserted that this was an Irish air; nay, 
1 met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he 
had heard it in Ireland among the old women ; 
while, on the other hand, a countess informed 
me, that the first person who introduced the air 
into this country, was a baronet's lady of her 
acquaintance, who took down the notes from an 
itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How diffi- 
cult then to ascertain the truth respecting our 
poesy and music I myself have lately seen a 
couple of ballads sung through the streets of 
Dumfries with my name at the head of them as 
the author, though it was the first time I had 
ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting Cragie-buru'wood ; 
and I shall take care to furnish you with a new 
chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my work, 
but a part of some old verses to the air. If I 
can catch myself in a more than ordinarily pro- 

* See the song in its first and best dress in page 
308. Our bard remarks upon it, " I could easily 
throw this into an English mould ; hut. to my t:isle. 
in the simple and the lender of the pastoral song, a 
sprinkling of the old Scottish has an inimitable ef- 
fect.' E. 



pitious moment, I shall write a new Cragie- 
burn-wood altogether. My heart is much in the 
theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request ; 'tis dunning your generosity; but in 
a moment, when I had forgotten whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you 
this: but an ungracious request is doubly so by 
a tedious apology. To make you some amends, 
as soon as I have extracted the necessary infor- 
mation out of them, I will return you Ritson'a 
volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collec- 
tion, and I am not a little proud that I have it in 
my power to please her so much. Lucky it is 
for your patience that my paper is done, for 
when I am in a scribbling humor I know not 
when to give over. 



No. LXIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Uth November, 1794. 
My Good Sir, 

Since receiving yovir last, I have had ano- 
ther interview with Mr. Clarke, and a long 
consultation. He thinks the Caledonian Hunt 
is more Bacchanalian than amorous in its na- 
ture, and recommends it to you to match the 
air accordingly. Pray, did it ever occur to you 
how peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapt- 
ed for verses in the form of a dialogue ? The 
first part of the air is generally low, and suited 
for a man's voice, and the second part in many 
instances cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but 
by a female voice. A song thus performed 
makes an agreeable variety, but few of ours are 
written in this form : I wish you would think 
of it in some of those that remain. The only 
one of the kind you have sent me is admirable, 
and will be a universal favorite. 

Your verses for Rothiemurchie are so sweetly 
pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for Diel 
tak the wars, so passionately tender, that I have 
sung myself info raptures with them. Your 
song for — My lodging is on the cold ground, is 
likewise a diamond of the first water ; and I am 
quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of 
your Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, from 
your partiality for this color; else we differ 
about it; for I should scarcely conceive a wo- 
man to be a beauty, on reading that she had 
lint- white locks. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows, I 
think excellent, but it is much too serious to 
come after Nancy ; at least, it would seem an 
incongruity to provide the same air with merry 
Scottish and melancholy English verses ! The 
more that the two sets of verses resemble each 
other in their general character, the better. 
Those you have manufactured for Dainty Davie 
will answer charmingly. I am happy to find 
you have begun your anecdotes ! I care not 
how long they be, for it is impossible that any 
thing from your pen can be tedious. Let me 
beseech you not to use ceremony in telling me 
when you wish to present any of your friends 



LETTERS 



319 



with the songs : the next carrier will bring you 
three copies, and you are as welcome to iweniy 
as to a pinch oi snutT. 



No. LXIV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Idth November, 1794. 
You see. my dear Sir, what a punctual cor- 
respondent I am ; though indeed you may thank 
yourself for the tedium of my lerters, as you 
have so flattered me on my horsemanship with 
my favorite hobby, and praised the i^race of his 
ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever of!" 
his back. For instance, this morning, though 
a keen blowing frost, in my walk before break- 
fast, I finished my duet which you were pleased 
to praise so much. Whether I have uniformly 
succeeded, I will not say ; but here it is for 
you, though it is not an hour old. 

HE. 
O Philly, happy be the day 
When roving through the gather'd hay. 
See FoemS: p. 74. 

Tell me honestly how you like it ; and point 
out whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing 
our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that 
you did not hint it to me sooner. In those 
that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I re- 
member your objections to the name Philly ; 
but it is the common abbreviation of Philiis. 
Sally, the only other name thai suits, has to 
my ear a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for 
any thing except burlesque. The legion of 
Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your 
brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as 
my coevals, have always mistaken vulganty for 
simplicity: whereas, simplicity is as much 
eloignce from vulgarity on the one hand, as from 
afTecied point and puerile conceit on the other. 

1 agree with you as to the air, Cragit-burn- 
wood, that a chorus would in some degree spoil 
the effect; and shall certainly have none in my 
projected song to it. It is noi, however, a case 
in point wi h Rothiemurchie; there, as in Rorfs 
Wife of Aldivaloch, a chorus goes, to my taste, 
well enough. As to the chorus going first, that 
is the case with Roy's Wife, as well as Rothie- 
murchie. In fact, in the first part of both tunes, 
the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on 
that irregularity depends so much of their 
beauty, that we must e'en take them with all 
their wildi.ess, and huinor the verses accord- 
ingly. Leaving out the sarting note, in both 
tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regularity 
could counterbalance the want of. 

Try— 

O Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch. 

O Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 
and compare with — 

Roy^s Wife of Aldivaloch. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 
Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
strike you? In the last case, with the true fu- 
ror of genius, you strike at once into the wild 
originality of the air: whereas, in the firsi in- 
sipid method, it is like the grating screw of the 
pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This 



is my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of 
the copnoscenti. 

The Caledonian Hunt is so charming that it 
would make any subject in a song go down; 
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot- 
tish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though 
the few we have are excellent. Vox instance, 
Todlin Home, is, for wit and humor, an un- 
paralleled composition ; and Andrew and his 
cutty gun, is the work of a master. By the 
way, are you not quite vexed to think that 
those men of genius, for such they certainly 
were, who composed out* fine Scottish lyrics, 
should be unknown ? It has given me many a 
heart-ache. Apropos to Bacchanalian songs in 
Scottish, I composed one yesterday, for an air I 
like much — Lumps o' Pudding. 

Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care. 

See Poems, p. 75, 

If you do not relish this air, I will send it to 
Johnson. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed 
a couple of English stanzas, by way of an Eng- 
lish song to Roy^s Wife. You will allow me 
that in this instance, my English corresponds 
in sentiment with the Scottish. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY 1 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?* 

See Poems, p. 75. 

Well! I think this, to be done in two or 
three turns across my room, and with two or 
three pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so 
far amiss. You see I am determined to have 
my quantum of applause from somebody. 

* To this address, in the character of a forsaken 
lover, a reply was found on the part of the lady, 
amonji the MSS. of our bard, evidently in a female 
hand-writing; which is doubtless that referred to in 
p. 308, Letter No XLH. J^ote. Tne temptation to 
give it to the public is irresistible ; and if. in so do- 
ing, offence should he given to the fair authoress, 
the beauty of her verses must plead our excuse, 
rwne— 'Roy's Wife.' 

CHOKUS. 

Stay, my Willie— yet believe me. 

Stay, my IViUie — yet believe me. 

For. ah ! thou know^st na erery panff 

Wad wringr my bosom shouldst thou leave mt 

Tell me that thou yet nrttrue. 

And a' my wrongs shall be forg ven, 

And when this h»'art proves fnuse to thee. 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
Stay my Willie, Sfc. 

But to think I was betray'd. 

That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder! 
To take the flow'ret »o my breast. 

And find the truilefu' serpent under ! 
Stay my Willie, S;c. 

Could I hope tliou'dst ne'er deceive, 

Celestial ple.isiire«, might 1 choose 'em, 

And sliuht, nor seek in other spheres 
That heiven I'd find within thy bosom. 
Stay my Willie, ^c. 

It may amuse the reader to he told, that on thit 
occasion ilie gentleman and the lady U,\v>- exchang- 
ed the dialects of tlieir respective toiintries. The 
Scottish bard makes his address in pure English: 
the reply on the part of the lady, m the Scott sh di- 
Miect. is. if we mistake not, by a young and besiuti- 
ful English woman. E. 



320 



LETTERS 



Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth) that 1 much suspect he has, in his plates, 
mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I 
have at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude 
instrument. It is composed of three pans; 
the stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a 
sheep, such as you see in a mutton ham ; the 
horn, which is a common Highland cow's horn, 
cut off at the smaller end, until the aperture be 
large enough to admit the stock to be pushed 
up through the horn until it be held by the 
thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an 
oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that 
which you see every shepherd boy have, when 
the corn-stems are green and full-grown. The 
reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held by 
the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of 
the stock, while the stock with the horn hang- 
ing on its larger end, is held by the hands in play- 
ing. The stock has six or seven ventiges, on 
the upper sides, and one back ventige, like the 
common flute. This of mine was made by a man 
from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what 
the shepherds wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored in 
the holes, or else we have not the art of blowing 
it rightly ; for we can make little of it. If Mr. 
Allan chooses I will send him a sight of mine ; 
as I look on myself to be a kind of brother- 
brush with him. " Pride in Poets is nae sin ;" 
and I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and 
Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real 
painters of Scottish costume in the world. 



No. LXV. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

28th November, 1794. 

I acknowledge, my dear Sir, you are not only 
the most punctual, but the most delectable cor- 
respondent I ever met with. To attempt flat- 
tering you, never entered into my head ; the 
truth is, I look back with surprise at my impu- 
dence, in so frequently nibbling at lines and 
couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for which, 
perhaps, if you had served me right, you would 
have sent me to the devil. On the contrary, 
however, you have all along condescended to 
invite my criticism with so much courtesy, that 
it ceases to be wonderful, if I have sometimes 
given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your last 
budget demands unqualified praise : all the 
songs are charming, but the duet is a chef d' 
ceuvre. Lumps o' Pudding shall certainly make 
one of my family dishes ; you have cooked it 
so capitally, that it will please all palates. Do 
give us a few more of this cast when you find 
yourself in good spirits; these convivial songs 
ai;e more wanted than those of the amorous 
kind, of which, we have great choice. Be- 
sides, one does not ofien meet with a singer ca- 
pable of giving the proper effect to the latter, 
while the former are easily sung, and acceptable 
to every body. I participate in your regret that 
the authors of some of our best songs are un- 
known ; it is provoking to every admirer of 
genius. 



I mean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad. The Soldier's Return, to be en- 
graved for one of my frontispieces. The most 
inieres'.ing point of time appears to me, when 
she first recognizes her ain dear Willie, " She 
gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three 
lines immediately following are no doubt more 
impressive on the reader's feelings ; but were 
the painter to fix on these, then you'll observe 
the animation and anxiety of her countenance 
is gone, and he could only represent her faint- 
ing in the soldier's arms. But I submit the 
matter to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your accu- 
rate description of the stock and horn, and for 
the very gratifying compliment you pay him in 
considering him worthy of standing in a niche 
by the side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon. 
He has seen the rude instrument you describe, 
so does not want you to send it ; but wishes to 
know whether you believe it to have ever been 
generally used as a musical pipe by the Scot- 
tish shepherds, and when, and in what part of 
the country chiefly. I doubt much if it was ca- 
pable of anything but routing and roaring. A 
friend of mine says he remembers to have 
heard one in his younger days, made of wood 
instead of your bone, and that the sound was 
abominable. 

Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 



No. LXVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1794. 
It is, T assure you, the pride of my heart, to 
do anything to forward, or add to the value t.f 
your book ; and as I agree with you that the 
Jacobite song in the Museum, to fherellnfvrr 
be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not so 
well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent 
lovesong to that air, I have just framed for you 
the following : 

MY Nannie's awa. 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 

How does this please you ? As to the point 
of time for the expression, in your proposed 
print from my Sodger's Return, it must cer- 
tainly be at—'' She gaz'd." The interesting 
dubiety and suspense taking possession of her 
countenance, and the gushing fondness with a 
mixtiare of roguish playfulness in his, strike me, 
as things of which a master will make a great 
deal. In great haste, but in great truth, yours. 



No. LXVII. 
TO THE SAME. 

Jamiary, 1795. 
I fear for my songs ; however a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position, and in a multiplicity of efl^orts in the 
same style, disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks, have 



LETTERS. 



321 



been describing the spring, tor instance ; and as 
the spring continues the same, there must soon 
be a sameness in the imagery, &.c. of these 
said rhyming folks. 

A great critic, Ail^in, on songs, says, that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for song- 
writing. The following is on neither subject, 
and consequently is no song ; but will be al- 
lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts inverted into rhyme. 

FOR a' that and a' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty. 
That hangs his head and a' that ; 

See Poems, p. 72. 

I do not give you the foregoing song for your 
book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ; 
for the piece is not really poetry. How will 
the following do for Craigie -burn- wood ?* 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And bliihe awakes the morrow ; 

See Poems, p. 75, 

Farewell ! God bless you. 



No. LXVIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, ZOth January, 1795. 

Mt Dear Sir, 

I thank you heartily for Nannie's awa, as well 
as for Craigie-burn, which I think a very comely 
pair. Your observation on the difficulty of ori- 
ginal writing in a number of efforts, in the same 
style, strikes me very forcibly : and it has again 
and again excited my wonder to find you con- 
tinually surmounting this difficulty, in the ma- 
ny delighiful songs you have sent me. Your 
vive la bagatelle song, For a' that, shall undoubt- 
edly be included in my list. 



No. LXIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 
February, 1795. 
Here is another trial at your favorite air. 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou waken, I would wit t 

Se» Poems, p.76. 



HER ANSWER. 

O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid me na wi' cauld disdain! 

I do not know whether it will do. 

* Cragie-burn-wond is situated on the banks of the 
river Moffat, and about ttiree miles distant from the 
village of ihat name, celebrated for its medicinal wa- 
ters. The woods of Craisie-burn and of Dumcrief, 
were at one time favorite haunts of our poet. It 
was there he met the " Lassie wi' the lint-white 
locks," and that he conceived several of his beauti- 
ful lyrics. ^ , E 



21 



No. LXX. 
TO THE SAME. 

Evclefechan, 1th Feb., 1795. 
My Dear Thomson, 

You cannot have any idea of the predicament 
in which I write to you. In the course of my 
duty as Supervisor (m which capacity I have 
acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfor- 
tunate, wicked; little village. I have gone for- 
ward, but snows often feet deep have impeded 
my progress; I have tried to " gae back the 
gait I cam again,'' but the same obstacle has 
shut me up within insuperable bars. To add 
to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has 
been torturing cat gut, in sounds that would 
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under 
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on 
that very account, exceeding good company. 
In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get 
drunk, to forget these miseries, or to hang my- 
self, to get rid of them ; like a prudent man, (a 
character congenial to my every thought, word, 
and deed,) I of two evils have chosen the least, 
and am very drunk, at your service !* 

I wrote to you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; 
and heaven knows, at present I have not capa- 
city. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it. We'll gang nae mair to yon town ? 
I think, in slowish time, it would make an ex- 
cellent song. I am highly delighted with it; 
and if you should think it worthy of your atten- 
tion, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I 
would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good 
night. 



No. LXXI. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

2bth February, 1795. 

I have to thank you, my dear Sir, for two 
epistles, one containing Let me in this ae night; 
and the other from Ecclefechan, proving that 
drunk or sober, your " mind is never muddy.'' 
You have displayed great address in the above 
song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same 
time, takes away the indelicacy that otherwise 
would have attached to his entreaties. I like 
the song as it now stands, very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some 
days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile 
the tedious forenoons by song making. It will 
give me pleasure to receive the verses you in- 
tend for wat ye wha's in yon town ! 



No. LXXII. 



MR 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
May, 1795. 

address TO THE WOODI.ARK. 

O Stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray. 

See Poevis, p. 76. 
* The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse 
sweet Ecclefechan ai this rate. E. 



322 



LETTER S 



Let me know at your very first leisure, how 
you like this song. 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 



Long, long the night. 

Heavy comes the morrow, 

See Poems, p. 76. 

How do you like the foregoing? The Irish 
air, Humors of Glen, is a great favorite of 
mine ; and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor 
Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, 
I have written for it as follows : 



Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon, 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per- 
fume. 

See Poems, p. 76. 



SONG. 



'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, Uiat was ne'er my undoing ; 
See Poems, p. 77. 

Let me hear from you. 



No. LXXIIL 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

You must not think, my good Sir, that I 
have any intention to enhance the value of my 
gift, when I say in justice to the ingenious and 
worthy artist, that the design and executidn of 
the Cotter's Saturday Night is, in my opinion, 
one of the happiest productions of Allan's pen- 
cil. I shall be grievously disappointed if you 
are not quite pleased with it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I think 
strikingly like you, as far as I can remember 
your phiz. This should make the piece inter- 
esting to your family every way. Tell me 
whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the 
figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic Address 
to the Wood-lark, your elegant Panegyric, on 
Caledo7i.ia, and your affecting verses on Chlo- 
vis's illness. Every repeated perusal of these 
gives new delisht. The other song to " Lad- 
die, lie near me," though not equal to these, is 
very pleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

How cruel are the parents, 
Who riches only prize ; 

See Poems, p. 77. 



SONG. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 
Round the wealthy, titled bride ; 

See Poans, p. 77. 



Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I an- 
swer your orders ; your tailor could not be 
more punctual, I am just now in a high fit for 
poetizing, provided that the straight jacket of 
criticism don't cure me. If you can in a post 
or two administer a little of the intoxicating 
portion of your applause, it will raise your 
humble servant's frenzy to any height you 
want. I am at this moment " holding high 
converse" with the Muses, and have not a 
word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as 
you are. 



No. LXXV. 
TO THE SAME. 

May, 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant pres- 
ent : though I am ashamed of the value of it 
being bestowed on a man who has not by any 
means merited such an instance of kindness. I 
have shown it to two or three judges of the first 
abilities here, and they all agree with me in 
classing it as a first rate production. My phii 
is sae ken-speckle, that the very joiner's appren- 
tice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break up 
the parcel (I was out of town that day,) knew 
it at once. My most grateful compliments to 
Allan, who has honored my rustic nmse so 
much with his masterly pencil. One strange 
coincidence is, that the little one who is making 
the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the 
most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, d — n'rf, 
v)ee, rumble- gai-rie, urchin of mine, whom, 
from that propensity to witty wickedness, and 
manfu' mischief, which even at two days auld, 
I foresaw would form the striking features of 
his disposition, I named Willie Nicol, after a 
certain friend of mine, who is one of the mas- 
ters of a grammar-school in a city which shall 
be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much- 
valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that 
on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, 
in a manner introduced me — I mean a well- 
known military and Uterary character, Colonel 
Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two 
last songs. Are they condemned ? 



No. LXXVL 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
\2th May, 1795. 

It gives me ereat pleasure to find that you 
are so well satisfied with Mr. Allaii's produc- 
tion. The chance resemblance of your little 
fellow, whose promising disposition appeared so 
very early, and suggested whom he should be 
named after, is curious enough. I am acquain- 
ted with that person, who is a prodigy of learn- 
ing and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though 
no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell me 
you have not merited the drawing from me. I 
do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently 
esteem and respect you for the liberal and kind 
manner in which you have entered into the 



LETTERS. 



323 



Boirit of my undertaking, which could not have 
been perfected without you. So 1 beg you 
would not make a fool of me again, by speak- 
ing of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and 
am happy to find you are in such a high fit of 
poetizing. Long may it last ! Clarke has made 
a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative ballad 
ot JVilliam and Margaret, and is to give it me 
to be enrolled among the elect. 



No. LXXVIL 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

In WhUtle, and I'll come to you, my lad, the 
Iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. 
Here goes what I think is an improvement. 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
O whisile, and I'll come to ye, my l;id ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad. 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine, I the 
Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- 
nassus — a dame, whom the Graces have attired 
in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed 
with lightning, a Fair One, herself the heroine 
of the song, insists on the amendment: and 
dispute her commands if you dare ! 

SONG. 

O this is no my ain lassie, 
Fair tho* the lassie be. 

See Poems, p. 77. 

Do you know that you have roused the tor- 
pidity of Clarke at last? He has requested me 
to write three or four songs for him, which he 
is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet 
contains two songs for him, which please to 
present to my valued friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your in- 
Fpection, and that you may copy the song, — 
hoJinie was yon rosy brier. I do not know whe- 
ther I am right; but that song pleases me, and 
as it is extremely probable that Clarke's newly 
roused celestial spark will be soon smothered 
in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it 
may go as Scottish verses, to the air of — I wish 
my love was in a mire ; and poor Erskine's 
English lines may follow. 

I enclose you a — For a' that and a' that, 
which was never in print ; it is a much supe- 
rior song to mine. I have been told that it 
was composed by a lady. 

Now spring has clad the grove in green, 
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers. 

See Poems, p. 77. 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier 
That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man. 

See Poems, p. 78. 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the 
last edition of my poems, presented to the lady, 
whom, in so many fictitious reveries of pa?sion, 
but with the most ardent sentiments of real 
friendship, I have so often sung under the name 
of Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledpre, my young, fair friend, 
Nor thou the gift reluse. 

See Poems, p. 78. 



Une hasatelle de V amilie. 



COILA. 



No. LXXVIIL 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 3d Aug., 1795. 
My Dear j3ir, 

This will be delivered to you by a Dr. 
Briaiitcn, who has read your works, and panta 
for the honor of your acquaintance. 1 do not 
know the gentleman, but his friend, who ap- 
plied to me ibr this introduction, being an ex- 
cellent young man, I have no doubt is worthy 
of all acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my 
mind feasted, with your last packet — full of 
pleasant things indeed. What an imagination 
is yours ! It is superfluous to tell you that I am 
delighted with all the three songs, as well as 
with your elegant and fender verses to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter — 
whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad, to the 
prosaic line — Thy Jeany will venture wx' ye, mi/ 
lad. I must be permitted to say, that I do not 
think the latter either reads or sings so well as 
the former. I wish, therefore, you would, in 
my name petition the charming Jeany, whoever 
she be, to let the line remain unaltered.* 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce 
a few airs to be joined to your verses. Every 
body regrets his writing so very little, as every 
body acknowledges his ability to w'rite well. 
Pray, was the resobtion formed coolly before 
dinner, or was it a midnight vow, made over a 
bowl of punch with the bard ? 

1 shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what 
you have sent him. 

P. S. The lady's — For a' that and a' that, is 
sensible enough, but no more to be compared to 
yours than I to Hercules. 



No. LXXIX. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, I wander here. 

See Poems, p. 78. 

How do you like the foregoing ? I have 
written it within this hour: so much for the 
speed of my Pegasus, but what say you to his 
bottom ? 



No. LXXX. 

TO THE SAME. 

Last May a braw wooer cam down th^ lang glen, 
And sair wi' his love did he deave tiie.f 

See Poems, p. 7». 

* The editor, who has heard the heroine of this 
song sing it herself, in the very spirit of arch sim- 
plicity that it requires, thinks .Mr. Thomson's peti- 
tion unreasonable. If we mistake not. this is the 
same lady who produced liie lines to the tune of — 
Koy's Jfj/f, ante, p. 3l9 

t In ihe original MS., the third line of the fourth 
verse runs. •' lie up the Gateslarktn my hlack cousin 
Bess." Mr. Thomson objected lo this word, as well 
as to the word, Dalffarnock, in the next verse. Mr. 
Hums replies as follows : 

'• Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a 
kind of passage up among the Lawther hills, on the 
confines of this county. Dalgarnock is also tho 



3^ 



LETTERS. 



Why. why tell thy lover, 
Bliss lie never must enjoy? 

See Poems, p. 79. 

Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this 
air, that I find it impossible to make another 
stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the 
charming sensations of the tooth-ache, so have 
not a word to spare. 



No. LXXXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Zd June, 1795. 
My Dear Sir, 

Your English verses to — Let me in this ae 
night, are tender and beautiful ; and your bal- 
lad to the " Lothian Lassie," is a masterpiece 
for its humor and naivete. The fragment for 
the CaIedo7iian Hunt is quite suited to the ori- 
ginal measure of the air. and, as it plagues you 
so, the fragment must content it. 1 would ra- 
ther, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian 
words, had ic so pleased the poet ; but, never- 
theless, for what we have received. Lord make 
us thankful ! 



No. LXXXTI. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

5th Feb., 1796. 
O Robby Burns, are ye sleeping- yet ? 
Or are ye wauking, I would wit ? 

The pause you have made, my dear Sir, is 
awful! Am I never to hear from you again? 
I know and I lament how much you have been 
afflicted of lafe. but I trust that returning health 
and spirits will now enable you to resume the 
pen, and delight us with your musings. I have 
still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I 
wish ■' married to immortal verse." We have 
several true born Irishmen on the Scottish list ; 
but they are now naturalized, and reckoned our 
own good subjects. Indeed we have none bet- 
ter. 1 believe I before told you that I have 
been much urged by some friends to publish a 
collection of all our favorite airs and songs in 
octavo, embellished with a number of etchings 
by our ingenious friend Allan ; — what is your 
opinion of this ? 



No. LXXXIII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 

Many thanks, my dear Sir. for your hand- 
some, elegant present, to Mrs. B , and for 

my remaining vol. of P. Pindar. Peter is a de- 
hghtful fellow, and a first favorite of mine. I 
am much pleased with your idea of publishing 
a collection of our songs in octavo, with etch- 
ings. I am extremely willing to lend every as- 
name of a romantir. s[)ot near the .Nith, where are 
Ktili a ruiniMl church and liurial-ground. However, 
let the first run, He up the lang loan, &c." 

It is always a pity to throw out any thing that 
gives locality to our poel'a verses. E. 



sistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall 
cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses 
for. 

I have already, you know, equipped three 
with words, and the other day I strung up a 
kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, 
which I admire much. 

HiiY FOR A LASS Wl' A TOCHER. 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms; 
See Poems, p. 79. 

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish 
engagement. In my by-pwist songs I dislike one 
thing ; the name of Chloris — I meant it as the 
fictitious name of a certain lady : but, on sec- 
ond thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a 
Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. 
Of this, and some things else, m my next: I 
have more amendments to propose. What you 
once mentioned of " flaxen locks" is just ; 
they cannot enter into an elegant description of 
beauty. Of this also again — God bless you !* 



No. LXXXIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR 



BURNS. 



Your Hey for a lass wi' a tocher, is a most 
excellent song, and with you the subject is 
something new indeed. It is the first time I 
have seen you debasing the god of soft desire, 
into an amateur of acres and guineas — 

1 am happy to find you approve of my propo- 
sed octavo edition. Allan has designed and 
etched about twenty plates, and I am to have 
my choice of them for that work. Independently 
of the Hogarthian humor with which they 
abound, they exhibit the character and costume 
of the Scottish peasantry with inimitable felici- 
ty. In this respect, he himself says they will 
iar exceed the aquatinta plates he did lor the 
Gentle Shepherd, because in the etching he 
sees clearly what he is doing, but not so with 
the at^uatinta, which he could not manage to 
his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more 
characteristic and natural than the Scottish fig- 
ures in those etchings. 



No. LXXXV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
April, 1796. 
Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be 
some time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By Ba- 
bel streams I have sat and wept," almost ever 
since I wrote you last : i have only known ex- 
istence by the pressure of the heavy hand of 
sickness and have counted time by the repercus- 
sions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold and fever, 
have formed to me a terrible combination. I 
close my eyes in misery, and open them wiih- 
out hope, I look on the vernal day, and say, 
wuh poor Fergusson — 

" Say, wherefore h:is an all-indulgent Heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given 1" 
* Our Poet never explained what name he would 
have substituted for Chloris. 

Note by Mr. Thomson. 



LETTERS 



325 



This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hy- 
slop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which 
for these many years has been my howff, and 
where our friend Clark and I have had many a 
merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with IVIr. 
Allan's etchings. IVoo'd and married art' o' 
is admirable. The grouping is beyond all 
praise. The expression of the figures conform- 
able to the story in the ballad, is absolutely 
faultless perfection. I next admire, Turn-im- 
spike. What I like least is Jenny said to Jockey. 
Besides the female being in hrr appearance * * 
* * * if you take her stooping into the account, 
she is at least two inches taller than her lover. 
Poor Cleghorn : I sincerely sympathize with 
him ! H;ippy I am to think that he has yet a 
well grounded hope of health and enjoyment in 
this world. As for me — but that is a * * * * * 
subject. 



No. LXXXVI. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
4th May, 1796. 

I need not tell you, my good Sir, what con- 
cern the receipt of your last gave me, and how 
much 1 sympathize in your sufferings. But do 
not, I beseech you, give yourself up to despon- 
dency, nor speak the language of despair. The 
vigor of your constitution. I trust, will soon set 
you on your feet again ; and then it is to be hop- 
ed you will see the wi.^dom and the necessity of 
taking due care of a life so valuable to your fam- 
ily, to your friends and to the wf)rld. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable 
accounts of your convalescence, and returning 
good spirits, I remain, with sincere regard, 
yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered 
the gold seal to you in good condition. 



will be a day or two in town, you will have 
leisure if you choose to write me by him ; and 
if you have a spare half hour to spend with 
! him, I shall place your kindness to niy account. 
I I have no copies of the songs 1 have sent you, 
I and I have taken a fancy to review them all, 
and possibly may mend so.me of them: so, when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank you for 
either the originals or copies.* I had rather be 
the autlior ot five well-written songs, than of 
ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the gen- 
ial influence of the approaching summer will 
set me to rights, l)ut as yet I cannot boast of 
returning health. I have now reason to believe 
that my complaint is a flying gout : — a sad busi- 
ness. 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, &nd re- 
member me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should 
like much to hear from you. 



No. LXXXVIf. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Mv Dear Sir, 

I once mentioned to you an air which I have 
long admired — Here's a health to them that's 
awa, hinrtie, but I forget if you took any notice 
of it. 1 have just been trying to sun it with 
verses ; and 1 beg leave to recommend the air 
to your attention once more. I have only be- 
gun it. 

CHORUS. 

ITere''s a health to ane I lo'^e dear, 
Here's a health to ane I lo^e dear ;* 

See Poems p, 79. 



No. LXXXVIir. 

TO THE SAME. 

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a 
young fellow of uncommon merit. As he 

* In the letter to Mr. Thnmson, the three first 
Btaiizas only are given, and Mr. Thmnson siippo>ed 
our poet had never gone farther. Ainonff h s MSS 
was however, found the fourth stanza, which cotii- 
pletes this exquisite song, the last finished offspring 
of hie muse. E. 



No. LXXXIX. 



TO THE 



AME. 



Brow., on the Solway Frith, 12th July, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, cursed 
necessity compels me to implore you for five 
pounds. A cruel * * * * of a haberdasher, to 
whom I owe an account, taking it into his head 
that J am dying, has commenced a process, and 
will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's 
sake, send me that sum, and that by return of 
post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the hor- 
rors of a jail have made me half distracted. I 
do not ask all this gratuitously ; for, upon re- 
turning health, I hereby promise and engage 
to furnish you with five pounds' worth of the 
neatest song genius you have seen. I tried my 
hand on Kothiemurchie this morning. The 
measure is so difficult, that it is impossible to 
infuse much genius into the lines ; they are on 
the oilier side. Furgive, forgive me ! 

SONG. 

CHORUS. 

Fairest maid on. Devo?i banks. 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,f 

See Poems, p. 79. 



No. XC. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

UthJuly, 1796. 
My Dear Sir, 

Ever since I received your melancholy let- 
ter by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in 

* It is needless to say that this revisal Burns did 
not live to perforin. E. 

t This song, and the letter enclosing it, are writ- 
ten in a character that marks the very lieel)lp state 
of Burns's hodily strength. Mr. Syine is of opinion 
that lie could not have been in any danger of a jail 
ai Dumfries, where certainly he had many firm 
fri nds ; n<>r under any such necessity of implor ng 
aid from £Miiiihiirj.'h. But about this time his nason 
began to be at times unsettled, and the horrors of a 
jail perpetually haunted his imagination. He died 
on the 21st of this mouth. £. 



326 



LETTERS 



what manner 1 could endeavor to alleviate your 
Bufferings. Again and again I thought of a pe- 
cuniary offer, but the recollection of one of 
your letters on this subject, and the fear of of- 
fending your independent spiii', checked my res- 
olution. I thank you heartily therefore for the 
frankness of your letter of ihe 12th, and wiih 
great pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum 
1 proposed sending. Would I were Chancellor 
of the Exchequer but for one day fur your 
sake ! 

Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you 
to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much 
trouble to you in the present state of your 
health, some literary friend might be found 
here, who would select and arrange from your 
manuscripts, and take upon him the task of 
Editor. In the mean lime it could be advertised 
to be published by subscription. Do not shun 
this mode of obtaining the value of your labor: 
remember Pope published the Iliad by sub- 
scription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and 
do not reckon me intrusive with my advice. 
You are too well convinced of the respect and 
friendship I bear you to impute anything I say 
to an unworthy motive. Yours faithfully. 

The verses to Rothiemurchie will answer 
finely. I am happy to see you can still tune 
your lyre. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER, 

FROM 
GILBERT BURNS TODR.CURRIE. 

It may gratify curiosity to know some particulars of 
the history of the preceding Poems,* on which the 
celebrity of our Bard has been hitherto founded ; 
and with this view the following extract is made 
from a letter of Gilbert Burns, the brother of our 
poet, and his friend and confidant from his earliest 
years. 

Mossgill, 2d April, 1798. 
Dear Sir, 

Your letter of the 14th of March I received 
in due course, but from the hurry of the season 
have been hitherto hindered from answering it. I 
will now try to give you what satisfaction I can, 
in regard to the particulars you mention. I 
cannot pretend to be very accurate in respect to 
the dates of the poems, but none of them, ex- 
cept Winter a Dirge, ( which was a juvenile 
production,) The Death and Dying Words of 
Poor Maillie, and some of the songs, were 
composed before the year 1784. The circum- 
stances of the poor sheep were pretty much as 
he has described them. He had partly by way 
of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs from a 
neighbor, and she was tethered in a field ad- 
joining the house at Lochlie. He and I were 
going out with our teams, and our two younger 
brothers to drive for us, at mid-day ; when 
Hugh Wilson, a curious looking awkward boy, 
clad in plaiding, came to us with much anxiety 
in his face, with the information that the ewe 
had entangled herself in the tether, and was 

♦ This refers to the pieces inserted before page 
67 of the Poems 



lying in the ditch. Robert was much tickled 
with Huocs appearance and postures on the oc- 
casion. Poor Maillie was set to rights, and 
when we returned from the plough in the eve- 
ning, he repeated to me her Death and Dying 
Words, pretty much in the way they now 
stand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the 
Epistle to Davie. Robert often composed with- 
out any regular plan. When anything made a 
strong impres.-ion on his mind, so as to rouse it 
to poetic exertion, he would give way to the im- 
pulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. If 
he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he 
would then think of proper introductory, con- 
necting, and concluding stanzas; hence the 
middle of a poem was often first produced, it 
was, I think, in the summer of 1784, when in the 
interval of harder labor, he and I were weeding 
in the garden (kailyard,) that he repeated to me 
the principal part of this epistle. I believe the 
first idea of Robert becoming an author was 
started on this occasion. I was much pleased 
with the epistle, and said to him I was of opin- 
ion it would bear being printed, and that it 
would be well received by people of taste ; that 
I thought it at least equal if not superior to ma- 
ny of Allan Ramsay's epistles ; and that the 
merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, 
seemed to consist principally in the knack of 
the expression, but here, there was a train of in- 
teresting sentiment, and the Scoticism of the 
language scarcely seemed affected, but appeared 
to be the natural language of the poet ; that, 
besides, there was certainly some novelty in a 
poet pointing out the consolations that were in 
store for him when he should go a-begging. 
Robert seemed very well pleased with my crit- 
icism, and we talked of sending it to some mag- 
azine, but as this plan afforded no opportunity 
of knowing how it would take, the idea was 
dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as we 
were going together with carts for coal to the 
family fire (and 1 could yet point out the partic- 
ular spot,) that the author first repeated to me 
the Address to the Deil. The curious idea of 
such an address was suggested to him by run- 
ning over in his mind the many ludicrous ac- 
counts and representations we have, from vari- 
ous quarters, of this august personage. Death 
a7id Dr. Hornhook, though not published in the 
Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in the 
year 1785. The Schoolmaster of Tarbolton 
parish, to eke up the scanty subsistence allow- 
ed to that useful class of men, had set up a 
shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally 
fallen in with some medical books, and become 
most hobby-horsically attached to the study of 
medicine, he had added the sale of a few medi- 
cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill 
printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking his 
own incapacity, he had advertised, that Advice 
would be given in "common disorders at the 
shop gratis." Robert was at a mason meeting in 
Tarbolton, when the Dominie unfortunately 
made too ostentatious a display of his medical 
skill. As he parted in the evening from this 
mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place 
where he describes his meeting with Death, one 
of those floating ideas of apparition he men- 
tions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his 
mind : this set him to work for the rest of the 



LETTERS 



327 



way home. These circumstances he related I 
when he repeated the verses to me next after- ! 
noon, as I was holding the plough, and he was 
letting the water off of the field beside me. 
The Epistle to John iMpraik was produced ex- 
actly on the occasion described l)y the author. 
He says in that poem, Oiif'iste7L-e'en, u>e had a 
rockin. I believe he has omitied the word rorh- 
ing in the glossary. It is a term derived from 
those primitive times, when the countrywomen 
employed their spare hours in spinning on the 
rack, or distaff. This simple itnplement is a 
very portable one, and well titled to the social 
inchnaiion of meeiing in a neighbor's house ; 
hence the phrase of going a-rocking or with the 
rock. As the connexion the phrase had with 
the implement was forgotten, when the rock 
gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase 
came to be used by both sexes on social occa- 
sions, and men talk of going with their rocks as 
well as women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house 
when we had twelve or fifteen young people 
with their rocks, that Lapraik's song beginning 
" When I upon thy bosom lean," was sung, 
and we were informed who was the author. 
Upon this, Robert wrote his first epistle to La- 
praik ; and his second in reply to his answer. 
The verses to the Mouse, and Mountain Daisy. 
were composed on the occasions memioned, and 
while the author was holding the plough ; I 
could point out the particular spot where each 
was composed. Holding the plough was a fa- 
vorite situation with Robert for poetic composi- 
tion, and some of his best verses were produ- 
ced while he was at that exercise. Several of 
the poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward some favorite sentiment of the 
author. He used to remark to me, that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifying pic- 
ture of human life, than a man seeking work. 
In casting about in his mind how this sentiment 
might be brought forward, the elegy Man was 
made to mourn, was composed. Robert had 
frequently remarked to me that he thought 
there was something peculiarly venerable in the 
phrase, " Let us worship God,'' used by a de- 
cent, sober head of a family, introducing fami- 
ly worship. To this sentiment of the author 
the world is indebted for the Cotter's Saturday 
Night. The hint of the plan, and the title of 
the poem, were taken from Furgusson's Farm- 
er's Ingle. When Robert had not some pleas- 
ure in view, in which I was not thought fit to 
participate, we used frequently to walk togeth- 
er, when the weather was favorable, on the 
Sunday afternoons (those precious breathing 
times to the laboring part of the community,) 
and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one 
regret to see their number abridged. It was in 
one of these walks, that I first had the pleasure 
of hearing the author repeat the Cotter's 
Saturday Night. I do not recollect to have 
heard or read any thing by which I was more 
highly electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, 
and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecsta- 
cy through my soul. I mention this to you, 
that you may see what hit the taste of unlet- 
tered criticism. I should be glad to know if 
) the enlightened mind and refined taste of Mr. 
Roscoe, who has borne such honorable testimo- 
ny to this poem, agrees with me in the selec- 



tion. Fergusson. in his Hallow Fair of Edin- 
burgh, 1 believe, likewise furnished a hint of the 
title and plan of the Holy Fatr. The farcical 
scene the poet there describes was often a favor- 
ite field of hi:s observation, and the most of the 
incidents he mentions had actually passed be- 
fore his eyes. It is scarcely necessary to men- 
tion that the Lament was composed on that un- 
fortunate passage in his matrimonial history, 
which I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. 
Dutilop, after the first distraction of his feel- 
ings had a little subsided. The Tale of the 
Twa Dogs was composed after the resolution 
of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had 
had a dog, which he called Luath, that was a 
great favorite. The dog had been killed by the 
wanton cruelty of some person the night before 
my father's death. Robert said to me, that he 
should like to confer such immortality as he 
could bestow upon his old friend Luath, and 
that he had a great mind to introduce something 
info the book, under the title of Stanzas to the 
Memory of a quadruped Friend ; but this plan 
was given up for the Tale as it now stands. 
Cepsar was merely the creature of the poet's im- 
agination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favorite Luath. The first time 
Robert heard the spinnet played upon, was at 
the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of the 
parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having giv- 
en up the parish in favor of his son. Dr. Law. 
rie has several daughters : one of them played ; 
the father and mother led down the dance ; the 
rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the 
other guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful 
family scene for our poet, then lately introduced 
to the world. His mind was roused to a poetic 
enthusiasm, and the stanzas p. 32 of the Poems, 
were left in the room where he slept. It was to 
Dr. Lawrie that Dr. Blacklock's letter was ad- 
dressed, which my brother in his letter to Dr. 
Moore, mentions as the reason of his going to 
Editiburgh. 

When my father /euetZ his little property near 
Alloway-Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had 
gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pas- 
turing in it. My father, with two or three oth- 
er neighbors, joined in an application to the 
town council of Ayr, who were superiors of the 
adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and rai- 
sed by subscription a sum for enclosing this an- 
cient cemetery with a wall ; hence, he came to 
consider it as his burial-place, and we learned 
that reverence for it people generally have for 
the burial-place of their ancestors. My brother 
was living in Ellisland, when Captain Grose, 
on his peregrinations through Scotland, staid 
some time at Carsehouse, in the neighborhood, 
with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddel, a 
particular friend of my brother's. The Anti- 
quarian and the poet were " Unco pack and 
thick thegither" Robert requested of Captain 
Grose, when he should come to Ayrshire, 
that he would make a drawing of Alloway- 
Kirk, as it was the burial-place of his father, 
and where he himself had a sort of claim to lay 
down his bones when they should be no longer 
serviceable to him ; and added by way of en- 
couragement, that it was the scene of many a 
good story of witches and apparitions, of which 
he knew the Captain was very fond. The 
Captain agreed to the request, provided the 



LETTERS. 



poet would furnish a witch-story to be printed 
along with it. Tarn o Shanler was produced 
on this occasion, and was first published in 
Grose^ s Antiqttities of Scotland. 

The poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading circumstances of a man riding 
home very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, 
his seeing a light in Alloway-Kirk, his having 
the curiosity to look in, his seeing a dance of 
witches, with the devil playing on a bagpipe to 
them, the scanty covering of one of the witch- 
es, which made him so far Ibrget himself, as to 
cry Weelloupen short sark ! — vviih the melan- 
choly catastrophe of the piece, is all a true sto- 
ry, that can be well attested by many respecta- 
ble old people in that neighborhood. 

I do not at present recollect any circumstan- 
ces respecting the other poems, that could be at 
all interesting; even some of those I have men- 
tioned, I am afraid, may appear trifling enough, 
but you will only make use of what appears to 
you of consequence. 

The following Poems in the first Edinburgh 
edition, were not in that published in Kilmar- 
nock. Death aitd Dr. Hornhooli ; the Brigs of 
Ayr ; the Calf ; (the poet had been with Mr. 
Gavin Hamilton in the morning, who said joc- 
ularly to him when he was going to church, in 
allusion to the injunction of some parents to 
their children, that he must be sure to bring 
him a note of the sermon at mid-day : this ad 
dress to the Reverend Gentleman on his text 
was accordingly produced.) The Ordination ; 
The Address to the Unco Guid; Tam Samson's 
Elegy ; A Winter Night ; Stanzas on the same 
Occasion as the preceding Prayer ; Verses left 
at a Reverend Friend's House ; The First 
Psalm ; Prayer under the Pressure of violent 
Anguish ; the First Six Verses of the Ninetieth 
Psalm ; Verses to Miss Logan, with Beattie''s 
Poems ; To a Haggis ; Address to Edinburgh ; 
John Barleycorn ; When Guilford Guid ; Be- 
hind yon hills where Stinchar flows ; Green grow 
the Rashes ; Again rejoicing Nature sees ; 
The gloomy Night ; No Churchman 1 am. 

If you have never seen the first edition, it 
will, perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe the 
preface, that you may see the manner in which 
the Poet made his first awe-struck approach to 
the bar of public judgment. 

[Here followed the Preface as given in the 
first page of the Poems] 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble Servant 

GILBERT BURNS. 
Dr. Currie, Liverpool. 



To this history of the poems which are con- 
tained in this volume, it may be added, that our 
author appears to have made little alteration in 
them after their original composition, except in 
some few instances, where considerable addi- 
tions have been introduced. After he had at- 
tracted the notice of the public by his first edi- 
tion, various criticisms were oflTered him on the 
peculiarities of his style, as well as of his sen- 
timents ; and some of these, which remain 
among his manuscripts, are by persons of great 
taste and judgment. Some few of these criti- 
cisms he adopted, but the far greater part he 
rejected; and, though something has by this 



means been lost in point of delicacy and cor 
rectness, yet a deeper impression is left of the 
strength and originality of his genius. The 
firmness of our poet's character, arising from a 
just confidence in his own powers, may, in part, 
explain his tenociousness of his peculiar expres- 
sions ; but it may be in some degree accounted 
for also, by the circumstances under which the 
poems were composed. Burns did not, like 
men of genius born under happier auspices, re- 
tire, in the moment of inspiration, to the silence 
and solitude of his study, and commit his ver- 
ses to paper as they arranged themselves in his 
mind. Fortune did not afford him this indul- 
gence. It was during the toils of daily labor 
that his fancy exerted itself; the muse, as he 
himself informs us, found him at the plough. 
In this situation, it was necessary to fix his ver- 
ses on his memory, and it was oiten many 
days, nay weeks, alter a poem was finished, be- 
fore it was written down. During all this time, 
by frequent repetition, the association between 
the thought and the expression was confirmed, 
and the impaniality of taste with which writ- 
ten language is reviewed and reouched after it 
has faded on the memory, could not in such in- 
stances be exerted. The original manuscripts 
of many of his poems are preserved, and they 
differ in nothing material from the last printed 
edition. Some few variations may be noticed. 

1. In The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer, 
after the stanza beginning, 

Erskine, a sjtunkie, JVorland Billie, 

there appears in his book of manuscripts, the 
following : 

Thee, Sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, 

If Bardies e'er are represented ; 

I ken if thai your sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend your hand ; 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 

Sodger Hugh, is evidently the present Earl 
of Eglintoun, then Colonel Montgomery of 
Coilsfield, and representing in parliament the 
county of Ayr. Why this was left out in print- 
ing does not appear. The noble earl will not 
be sorry to see this notice of him, familiar 
though it be, by a bard whose genius he admi- 
red, and whose fate he lamented. 

2. In The Address to the Deil, the second 
stanza ran originally thus: 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene, 
When strappin Adam's days were green. 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancin, sweet, young, handsome quean, 

Wi' guiltless heart. 

3. In The Elegy on Poor Maillie, the stanza 
beginning, 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

was, at first, as follows : 

She was na get o' runted rams, 

Wi' woo' like goats, and legs like trams ; 

She was the flower o' Fairlee Iambs, 

A famous breed ; 
Now Robin, greetin, chows the hama 

O' Maillie dead. 

It were a pity that the Fairlee lambs should lose 
the honor oitce intended them. 

4. But the chief variations are found in the 
poems introduced for the first time, in the edi- 



LETTERS. 



329 



tion of two volumes, small octavo, published in 
1792. Of the poem written in Friar's- Carse 
Hermitage, there are several editions, and one 
of these has nothing in common with the prin- 
ted poem but the first four lines. The poem 
that is published, which was his second effort on 
the subject, received considerable alterations in 
printing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning, 

Say, man^s true, genxiint estimate, 

in manuscript, the following are inserted : 

Say, the criterion of their Cate, 
Th' important query of ttieir state. 
Is not, art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Wen thou cottager or king! 
Prince or peasant 7 — no such thing. 

5. The Epistle to R. G. Esq. of F. that is to 
H. Graham, Esq. of Fintra, also underwent 
considerable alterations, as may be collected 
from the general Correspondence. The style 
of poetry was new to our poet, and though he 
was fitted to excel in it, it cost him more trou- 
ble than his Scottish poetry. On the contrary, 
Tam o' Shanter seems to have issued perfect 
from the author's brain. The only considera- 
ble alteration made on reflection, is the omis- 
sion of four lines, which had been inserted after 
the poem was finished, at the end of the dread- 
ful catalogue of the articles found on the " haly 
table,'' and which appeared in the first edition 
of the poem, printed separately. — They came 
after the line, 

Which even to name would he unlawfu,'' 

and are as follows : 



nside out, 
clout, 



Three lawyers' tongues turn'd i 
Wi' lies seem'd like a beggar's ciout, 
And priests' heart, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay, stinking vile, in every neuk. 

These lines which, independent of other objec- 
tions, interrupt and destroy the emotions of 
terror which the preceding description had ex- 
cited, were very properly left out of the printed 
collection, by the advice of Mr. Fraser Tyiler ; 
to which Burns seems to have paid much def- 
erence* 

6. The Address to the shade of Thomson, be- 
gan in the first manuscript copy in the following 
manner : 

• While cold-ey'd Spring, a virgin coy. 

Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet; 
Or pranks the sot! in frolic joy, 

A carpet for her youthful feet ; 
While Summer, with a matron's grace, 

Walks stately in the cooling shade ; 
And oft delighted, loves to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 
While Autumn, benefai lor kind, 

With age's hoary honors cl id, 
Surveys with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed, <fcc. 

By the alteration in the printed poem, it may 
be questioned whether the poetry is much im- 
proved ; the poet however has found means to 

• These four lines have been inadvertently repla- 
ced in the copy of Tnm o' Sknnter, published in the 
first volume of the " Poetry, Original and Selected," 
of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow ; and to this circum- 
stance is owing their being noticed here. As oiir 
poet deliberately rejected them, it is hoped that no 
future printer vvill insert them. 

22 



introduce the shades of Dryburgh, the residence 
of the Earl of Buchan, at whose request these 
verses were writte/i. 

These observations might be extended, but 
what are already ofiisred will satisfy curiosity, 
and there is nothing of any importance that 
could be added. 



THE FOLLOWING LETTER 

Of Burns, which contains some hints relative to the 
origin of his celebrated tale of "Tam o' Shanter," 
the Publishers trust, will be found interesting to 
every reader of his works. There appears no rea- 
son to doubt of its being genuine, though it has 
not been inserted in his correspondence published 
by Dr. Currie. 



TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ. F. A. S.* 

Among the many witch stories I have heard 
relating to Alloway-Kirk, I distinctly remember 
only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of 
wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; in short, on such 
a night as the devil would chuse to take the air 
in ; a farmer or farmer's servant was plodding 
and plashing homeward with his plough-irons 
on his shoulder, having been getting some re- 
pairs on them at a neighboring smithy. His 
way lay by the kirk of AUoway, and being 
rather on the anxious look out in approaching a 
place so well known to be a favorite haunt of 
the devil and the devil's friends and emissa- 
ries, he was struck aghast by discovering 
through the horrors of the storm and stormy 
night, a light which on his nearer approach 
plainly showed itself to proceed from the haun- 
ted edifice. Whether he had been fortified 
from above on his devout supplication, as is cus- 
tomary with people when they suspect the im- 
mediate presence of Satan, or whether, accord- 
ing to another custom, he had got courageously 
drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend to deter- 
mine ; but so it was, that he ventured to go up 
to, nay into the very kirk. As good luck 
would have it, his temerity came oflf" unpunished. 

The memberd of the infernal junto were all 
out on some midnight business or other, and he 
saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron de 
pending from the roof, over the fire, simmering 
some heads of unchristened children, limbs of 
executed malefiactors, &c. for the business of 
the night. It was in for a penny, in for a pound, 
with the honest ploughman : so without cere- 
mony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, 

*This Letter was first published in the Censura 
Literaria, 1786, and was commniiicated to the Editor 
of that work by Mr. Gilchrist of Stamford, accompa- 
nied with the following remark : 

"In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the 
Antiquary Grose, which I purchased a few yearg 
since, I found the following letter written to him by 
Burns, when the former was collecting the Antiqui- 
ties of Scotland. When 1 premise it was on the 
second tradition that he afterwards formed the in- 
imitable tale of ' Tam o' Shanter,' I cannot doubt 
of its beins; read with great interest. It were 'burn- 
ing day light' to point out to a reader (and who ig 
not a reader of Burns ?) the thoughts he afterwards 
transplanted into the rhythmical narrative. O. G. 



330 



LETTERS 



and pouring out the damnable ingredients, in- 
verted it on his head, and carried it fairly home, 
where it remained long in the family, a living 
evidence of the truth of the story. 

Another story which I can prove to be equally 
authentic, was as follows : 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a far- 
mer from Carrick, and consequently whose 
way laid by the very gate of Alloway-Kirk- 
yard, in order to cross the river Doon at the old 
bridge, which is about two or three hundred 
yards farther on than the said gale, had been 
detained by his business, till by the time he 
reached Alloway it was the wizard hour, be- 
tween night and morning. 

Though he was terrified with a blaze stream- 
ing from the kirk, yet as it is a well known fact 
that to turn back on these occasions is running 
by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudent- 
ly advanced on his road. When he had reached 
the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and 
entertained, through the ribs and arches of an 
old Gothic window, which still faces the high- 
way, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it 
round their old sooty blackguard master, who 
was keeping them all alive with the power of 
his bagpipe. The farmer stopping his horse to 
observe them a little, could plainly descry the 
faces of many old women of his acquaintance 
and neighborhood. How the gentleman was 
dressed, tradition does not say ; but the ladies 
were all in their smocks ; and one of them 
happening unluckily to have a smock which 
was considerably too short to answer all the 
purposes of that piece of dress, our farmer was 
80 tickled, that he involuntarily burst out, with 
a loud laugh, " Weel luppen, Maggy wi' the 
short sark !" and recollecting himselH^ instantly 
spurred his horse to the top of his speed. I 
need not mention the universally known fact, 
that no diabolical power can pursue you beyond 
the middle of a running stream. Lucky it was 
for the poor farmer that the river Doon was so 
near, for notwithstanding the speedof his horse, 
which was a good one, against he reached the 
middle of the arch of the bridge, and conse- 
quently the middle of the stream, the pursuing 
vengeful hags, were so close at his heels, that one 



of them actually sprung to seize him ; but it waa 
too late, nothing was on her side of the stream 
but the horse's tail, which immediately gave 
way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a 
stroke of lightning ; but the farmer was beyond 
her reach. However, the unsightly, tailless 
condition of the vigorous steed was, to the last 
hour of the noble creature's life, an awful warn- 
ing to the Carrick farmers, not to stay too late 
in Ayr markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though equally 
true, is not so well identified, as the two former, 
with regard to the scene ; but as the best au- 
thorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time that 
nature puts on her sables to mourn the expiry 
of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy belonging 
to a farmer in the immediate neighborhood of 
Alloway kirk, had just folded his charge, and 
was returning home. As he passed the kirk, 
in the adjoining field, he fell in with a crew of 
men and women who were busily pulling sterna 
of the plant Ragwort. He observed that as 
each person pulled a Ragwort, he or she got a 
stride of it, and called out, " up horsie 1" on 
which the Ragwort flew off like Pegasus, 
through the air with its rider. The foolish boy 
hkewise pulled his Ragwort, and cried wuh the 
rest, *' up horsie!'' and strange to tell, away 
he flew with the company. The first stage at 
which the cavalcade slopped, was a merchant's 
wine cellar in Bourdeaux, where, without say- 
ing by your leave, they quaffed away at the 
best the cellar could afford, until the morning, 
foe to the imps and works of darkness, threat- 
ened to throw light on the matter, and frighten- 
ed them from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stran- 
ger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly got 
himself drunk ; and when the rest took horse, 
he fell asleep, and was found so next day by 
s6me of the people belonging to the merchant. 
Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him 
what he was, he said he was such-a-one's herd 
in Alloway, and by some means or other get- 
ting home again, he lived long to tell the world 
the wondrous tale. 

I am, ii,c, &.C. 



APPENDIX. 



No. I.— Note A. See Life, p. 2. 
The importance of the national establishment 
of parish-schools in Scotland will justify a short 
account of the legislative provisions respecting 
it, especially as the subject has escaped the no- 
tice of all the historians. 

By an act of king (James Vlth) and privy 
council of the 10th of December, 1616, it was 
recommended to his bishops to deale a7id travel 
with the heritors (land proprietors,) and the in- 
habitants of the respective parishes in their re- 
pectivediocesses; towards the fixing upon "some 
certain, solid, and sure course" for settling and 
entertaining a school in each parish. This was 
ratified by a statute of Charles I. (the act of 
1633, chap. 5.) which empowered the bishop, 
with the consent of the heritors of a parish, or 
of a majority of the inhabitants, if the heritors 
refused to attend the meeting, to assess every 
plough of land (that is. every farm in propor- 
tion to the number of ploughs upon it,) with a 
certain sum for establishing a school. This 
was an ineffectual provision, as depending on 
the consent and pleasure of the heritors and in- 
habitants. Therefore a new order of things 
■A'as introduced by Slat. 1646. chap. 17, which 
obliges the heritor and minister of each parish 
to meet and assess the several heritors with the 
requisite sum for building a school-house, and 
to elect a school -master, and modify a sala- 
ry for him in all time to come. The salary is 
ordered not to be under one hundred, nor above 
two hundred merks, that is, in our present ster- 
ling money, not under £5 lis. Ud. nor above 
XI 1 2s, 3d. and the assessment is to be laid on 
the land in the same proportion as it is rated for 
the support of the clergy, and as it regulates the 
payment of the land-tax. But in case the heri- 
tors of any parish, or the majority of them, 
i should fail to discharge this duty, then the per- 
sons forming what is called the Committee of 
1 Supply of the county (consisting of the princi- 
pal land-holders, j or amj five of them, are au- 
' thorized by the statute to impose the assess- 
ment instead of them, on the representation of 
i the presbytery in which the parish is situated. 
' To secure a choice of a proper teacher, the 
1 right of election by the heritors, by a statute 
, passed in 1693, chap. 22, is made subject to the 
\ review and control of the presbytery of the dis- 
\ trict, who have the examination of the person 
j proposed committed to them, both as to his 
qualifications as a teacher, and as to his proper 
, deportment in the office when settled in it. 
The election of the heritors is therefore only a 



presentment of a person for the approbation of 
the presbytery; who, if they find him unfit, 
may declare his incapacity, and thus oblige 
them to elect anew. So far is staled on unques- 
tionable authority.* 

The legal salary of the schoolmaster was not 
inconsiderable at the time it was fixed ; but by 
the decrease in the value of money, it is now 
certainly inadequate to its object ; and it is pain- 
ful to observe, that the landholders of Scotland 
resisted the humble application of the school- 
masters to the legislature for its increase, a few 
years ago. The number of parishes in Scotland 
is 877 ; and if we allow the salary of a school- 
master in each to be on an average, seven 
pounds sterling, the amount of the legal provis- 
ion will be jC6,139 sterling. If we suppose 
the wages paid by the scholars to amount to 
twice the sum, which is probably beyond the 
truth, the total of the expenses among 1,526, 
492 persons (the whole population of Scotland,) 
of this most important establishment, will be 
i^l8,417. But on this, as well as on other sub- 
jects respecting Scotland, accurate information 
may soon be expected from Sir John Sirclair's 
Analysis of his Statistics, which will complete 
the immortal monument he has reared to his 
patriotism. 

The benefit arising in Scotland from the in- 
struction of the poor, was soon felt ; and by an 
act of the British parliament, 4 Geo. I. chap. 6, 
it is enacted, " that of the moneys arising from 
the sale of the Scottish estates forfeited in the 
rebellion of 1715, i;2, 000 sterling shall be con- 
verted into a capital stock, the interest of which 
shall be laid out in erecting and maintaining 
schools in the Highlands. The Society for 
propagating Christian Knowledge, incorporated 
in 1709, have applied a large part of their fund 
for the same purpose. By their report, 1st May, 
1795, the annual sum employed by them, in 
supporting their schools in the Highlands and 
Islands, was X3,913 19s. lOd., in which are 
taught the English language, reading and wri- 
ting, and the principles of religion. The 
schools of the society are additional to the legal 
schools, which from the great extent of many 
of the Highland parishes, were found insuffi- 
cient. Besides these established schools, the 
lower classes of people in Scotland, where the 
parishes are large, often combine together, and 
establish private schools of their own, at one of 
which it was that Burns received the principal 

*The authority of A. Fraser Tytlei, and David 
Hume, Esqrs. 

331 



332 



APPENDIX 



part of his education. So convinced indeed are 
the poor people of Scotland, by experience, of 
the benefit of instruction, to their children, that, 
though they may often find it difficult to feed 
and clothe them, some kind of school-instruc- 
tion they almost always procure them. 

The influence of the school-establishment of 
Scotland on the peasantry of that country, 
seems to have decided by experience a question 
of legislation of the utmost importance — wheth- 
er a system of national instruction for the poor 
be favorable to n>orals and good government. 
In the year 1698, Fletcher of Salton declared 
as follows : "There are at this day in Scotland, 
tsvo hundred thousand people begging from 
door to door. And though the number of them 
be perhaps double to what it was formerly, by 
reason of this present great distress (a famine 
then prevailed ) yet in all times there have been 
about one hundred thousand of those vagabonds, 
who have lived without any regard or subjec- 
tion either to the laws of the land, or even those 
of God and nature ; fathers incestuously ac- 
companying with their own daughters, the son 
with the mother, and the brother with the sis- 
ter." He goes on to say ; that no magistrate 
ever could discover that they had ever been bap- 
tized, or in what way one in a hundred went 
out of the world. He accuses them as frequent- 
ly guilty of robbery, and sometimes of murder : 
" Jn years of plenty," says he, " many thou- 
sands of men meet together in the mountains, 
where they feast and riot for many days ; and 
at country weddings, markets, burials, and 
other public occasions, they are to be seen, both 
men and women, perpetually drunk, cursing, 
blaspheming, and fighting together."* This 
highminded statesman, of whom it is said by a 
contemporary *• that he would lose his life read- 
ily to save his country, and would not do a base 
thing to serve it,'' thouijht the evil so great that 
he proposed as a remedy, the revival of domes- 
tic slavery, according to the practice of his ado- 
red republics in the classic ages ! A better re- 
medy has been found, which in the silent lapse 
of a century has proved efTectual. The stat- 
ute of 1696, the noble legacy of the Scottish 
Parliament to tlifir country, began soon after 
this to operate ; and happily, as the minds of 
the poor received instruction, the Union opened 
new channels of industry, and new fields of ac- 
tion to their view. 

At the present day there is perhaps no coun- 
try in Europe, in which, in proportion to its 
population, so small a number of crimes fall un- 
der the chastiseiTient of the criminal law, as 
Scotland. We have the best authority for as- 
-serting, that on an average of thirty yenrs, pre- 
cedmg ihe year 1797, the executions in that di- 
■visioii of the island did not amount to six annu- 
ally ; and one quarter-sessions for the town of 
Manchester only, has sent, according to Mr. 
Hume, more felons to the plantations, than all 
the judges of Scotland usually do in the space 
of a year.t It might appear invidious to at- 
tempt a calculation of the many thousand indi- 
viduals in Manchester and its vicinity who can 
neither read nor write. A majority of those 
who can suffer the punishment of death for 

♦Political Works of Andrew Fletcher, octavo, 
liondon. 

t Hume's Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland, 
Jmroduciion, p. 50. 



their crimes in every part of England are, it is 
believed, in this miserable state of ignorance. 

There is now a legal provision for parochial 
schools, or rather for a school in each of the 
different townships into which the country is di- 
vided, in several of the northern states of North 
America. I'hey are. however, of recent origin 
there, excepting in New England, where they 
were established in the last century, probably 
about the same time as in Scotland, and by the 
same religious sect. In the Protestant Cantons 
of Switzerland, the peasantry have the advan- 
tage of similar schools, though established and 
endowed in a different manner. This is also 
the case in certain districiB in England, particu- 
larly, in the northern part of Yorkshire and of 
Lancashire, and in the counties of Westmore- 
land and Cumberland. 

A law, providing for the instruction of the 
poor, was passed by the Parliament of Ireland ; 
but the fund was diverted from its purpose, and 
the measure was entirely frustrated. Froh 
Pudor ! 

The similarity of character between the 
Swiss and the Scotch, and between the Scotch 
and the people of New England, can scarcely 
be overlooked. That it arises in a great meas- 
ure from the similarity of their institutions for 
instruction, cannot be questioned. It is no 
doubt increased by physical causes. With a 
sui)erior degree of instruction, each of these na- 
tions possesses a country that may be said to be 
sterile, in the neighborhood of countries com- 
paratively rich. Hence emigrations and the 
oiher effects oil conduct and character which 
such circumstances naturally produce. This sub- 
ject is in a high degree curious. The points of 
dissimilarity between these nations might be 
traced to their causes also, and the whole inves- 
tigation would perhaps admit of an approach to 
certainty in our conclusions, to which such in- 
quiries seldom lead. How much superior in 
morals, in intellect, and in happiness, the peas- 
antry of those parts of England are who have 
opportunities of mstruction, to the same class 
in other situations, those who inquire into the 
subject will speedily discover. I'he peasantry 
of Westmoreland, and of the other districts 
mentioned above, if their physical and moral 
qualities be taken together, are, in the opinion 
of the Editor, superior to the peasantry of any 
part of the island. 

Note B. Seep. 160. 

It has been supposed that Scotland is less pop- 
ulous and less improved on account of this em- 
igration ; but such conclusions are doubtful, if 
not wholly fallacious. The principle of popu- 
lation acts in no country to the full extent of its 
power ; marriage is everywhere retarded beyond 
the period pointed out by nature, by the difficul- 
ty of supporting a family ; and this obstacle is 
greatest in long-settled communities The em- 
igration of a part of a people facilitates the mar- 
riage of the rest, by producing a relative in- 
crease in the means of subsistence. The argu- 
ments of Adanj Smith, for a free export of corn, 
are perhaps applicable with less exception to the 
free export of people. The more certain the 
vent, the greater cultivation of the soil. This 
subject has been well investigated by Sir James 
Stewart, whose principles have been expanded 



APPENDIX. 



333 



and farther illustrated in a late truly philosophi- 
cal Essuy oil Population. In fact, Scotland 
has increased in ihe nuniber of its inhabitants in 
the lav««t forty years, as the Statistics of Sir John 
Sinclair clearly prove, but not in the ratio that 
some had supposed. Tl>e extent of the emigra- 
tion of the Scots may be calculated with some 
degree of confidence from the proportionate 
nuiTiber of the two sexes in Scotland ; a point 
that may be established pretty exactly by an 
examination of the invaluable Statistics already 
mentioned. If we suppose that there is an 
equal number of male and female natives of 
Scotland, alive sometnhere or other, the excess 
by which the females exceed the males in their 
own country, may be considered to be equal to 
the number of Scotchmen living out of Scot- 
land. But though the males borti in Scotland 
be admitted to be as 13 to 12, and though .>Jome 
of the females emigrate as well as the males, 
this mode of calculating would probably make 
the number of expatriated Scotchmen, at any 
one time alive, greater than the truth. The 
unhealthy climates into which they emigrate, 
the hazardous services in which so many of 
them engage, render the mean lite of those 
who leave Scotland (to speak in the language 
of calculators) not perhaps of half the value of 
the mean life of those who remain. 

Note C.Seep. 162. 

In the punishment of this offence the Church 
employed formerly the arm of civil power. 
During the reign of James Vlih (James the 
First of England,) criminal connexion between 
unmarried persons was made the subject of a 
particular statute {See Harness Commentaries on 
ihe Laws of Srotlaiid, Vol. ii. p. 332.) which, 
from its rigi»r, was never much enforced, and 
which has long fallen into disuse. When in the 
middle of the last century, the Puritans suc- 
ceeded in the overthrow of the monarchy in 
both divisions of the island, fornication was a 
crime against which they directed their utmost 
zeal. It was made punishable with death in 
the second instance [See Blackstojie, b. iv. chap. 
4, No. II ) Happily this sanguinary statute 
was swept away long ago with the other acts of 
the Commonwealth, on the restoration of 
Charles II. to whose temper and manners it 
must have been peculiarly abhorrent. And af- 
ter the Revolution, when several salutary acts 
passed during the suspension of the monarchy, 
were re-enacted by the Scottish Parliament, 
particularly that for the establi.-hmeni of parish- 
schools, the statute punishing fornication with 
death, was suffered to sleep in the grave of 
the stern fanatics who had given it birth. 

Note D.Seep. 163. 

The legitimation of children, by subsequent 
marriage, became the Roman law under the 
Christian emperors. It was the canon law of 
modern Europe, and has been established in 
Scoiland from a very remote period. Thus a 
child born a bastard, if his parents afterwards 
mar/y, enjoys all the privileges of seniority 
over his brothers afterwards born in wedlock. 
In the Parliament of JVlerton, in the reign of 
Henry 111. the English clergy made a vigorous 
attempt to imroduce this article into the law of 
England, and it was on this occasion that the 



Barons made the noted answer, since so often 
appeali d to ; Quod nolunt leges Anplier, mutare; 
quce hue usque usitatce suiU approbatce. With 
regard to what constitutes a marriage, the law 
of Scotland, as explained, page 163, difl'ers Irom 
the Roman law, which required the ceremony 
to be perfonr\Gd in facie ecdesioB. 



No. II. 

Note A. .See p. 166. 

It may interest some persons to peruse the 
first poetical production of our Bard, and it is 
therefore extracted from a kind of common- 
place-book, which he seems to have begun in 
his twentieth year ; and which he entitled, 
•* Observations, Hints, Songs. Scraps of Pnetry, 
^■c. by Robert Burness, a man who had little 
art in making money, and still less in keeping 
it ; but was, however, a man of some sense, a 
great deal of honesty, and unbounded good will 
to every creature, rational or irrational. As he 
was but little indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough-tail, his performances 
must be strongly tinctured with his unpolished 
rustic way of lil'e ; but as, I believe they are 
really his own, it may be some entertainment 
to a curious observer of human nature, to see 
how a ploughman thinks and feels, under the 
pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with 
the like cares and passions, which however di- 
versified by the modes and manners of life, op- 
erate pretty much alike, I believe, in all the 
species." 

" Pleasing when youth is long expired, to trace 
Thf forms our pencil or our pen dcsign'd. 

Such W.1S our yoniliful air. and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of the youthful rnind." 
Shenstone. 

This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed 
this account of himself, and of his intention in 
preparing it, coniains several of his earlier po- 
ems, some as they were printed, and others in 
their embryo state. Ihe song alluded to is 
that beginning, 

O once I loved a bonnie lass, 
Ah, and I love her still. 

Sec Poems, p. 59. 

It must be confessed that this song gives no 
indication of the future genius of Burns; but 
he himself seems to have been fond of it, pro- 
bably from the recollections it excited. 

Note B. See p. 168. 
At the time that our poet took the resolution 
of becoming wise, he procured a little book of 
blank paper, with the purpose (expressed on the 
first page) of making farming memorandums 
upon it. These farming memorandums are 
curious enough ; many of them have been 
written with a pencil, and are now obliterated, 
or at least illegible. A considerable number 
are however legible, and a specimen may grati- 
fy the reader. It must be premised, that the 
poet kept the book by him several years — that 
he wrote upon it, here and there, with the ut- 
most irregularity, and that on the same page 
are notations very distant from each other as to 
time and place. 



ZM 



APPENDIX. 



EXTEMPORE. 

April, 1782. 

O why the deuce should I repine 
And be an ill foreboder ; 

See Poems, p. 124. 

FRAGMENT. Tune.—' Donald Blue.' 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

See Poems, p. 114. 



For he's far aboon Dunkel the night 
Maun white the slick and a' that. 

Mem. To get for Mr. Johnson these two 
Songs: ^' Molly, Molly, my dear honey. ^^ 
** The cock and the Jien, the deer in her den,^''(^c. 



Ah ! Chloris! Sir Peter Halket, of Pitferran, 
the author. Nota, he married her — the heiress 
of Pitferran. 

Colonel George Crawford, the author of 
Down the hum Davy. 

Pinky-house, by J. Mitchell. 

My apron Deary ! and Amynta, by Sir G. 
Elliot. 

Willie was a wanton Wag, was made on 
Walkinshaw, of Walkinshaw, near Paisley, 

Iloe naa laddie but ane, Mr. Cliinzee. 

The bonnie wee thing — beautiful — Lundie's 
Dream — very beautiful. 

He tilVt and she tilVt — assez bien. 

Armstrong''s Farewell — fine. 
The author of the Highland Queen was a Mr. 
M'lver, Purser of the Solboy. 

Fife an^ a' the land about it, R. Fergusson. 

The author of The bush aboun Traquair, was 
a Dr. Stewart. 

Polwart on the Green, composed by Captain 
John Drummond M'Grigorof Bochaldie. 

Mem. To inquire if Mrs. Cochburn was the 
author of / hae see?i thee smiling, &c. 
* * * * 

The above may serve as a specimen. All 
the notes on farming are obliterated. 

Note C. See p. 179, 180. 

Rules and regulations to be observed in the 
Bachelor''s Club. 

1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton every 
fourth Monday night, when a question on any 
subject shall be proposed, disputed points of re- 
ligion, only excepted, in the manner hereafter 
directed ; which question is to be debated in 
the club, each member taking whatever side he 
thinks proper. 

2d. When the club is met, the president, or, 
he failing, some one of the members, till he 
come, shall take his seat ; then the other mem- 
bers shall seat themselves : those who are for 
one side of the question, on the president's 
right hand ; and those who are for the other 
side on his left ; which of them shall have the 
right hand is to be determined by the president. 
The president and four of the members being 
present, shall have power to transact any ordi- 
nary part of the society's business. 

3d. The club met and seated, the president 
shall read the question out of the club's book 
of records, (which book is always to be kept 
by the president,) then the two members near- 



est the president shall cast lots who of them 
shall speak firsst, and according as the lot shall 
determine, the member nearest the president 
on that side shall deliver his opinion, and the 
member nearest on the other side shall reply to 
him ; then the second member of the side that 
spoke first ; then the second member of the 
side that spoke second ; and so on to the end 
of the company ; but if there be fewer mem- 
bers on one side than on the other, when all the 
members of the least side have spoken accord- 
ing to their places, any of them, as they please 
among themselves, may reply to the remaining 
members of the opposite side : when both sides 
have spoken, the president shall give his opin- 
ion, after which they may go over it a second 
or more times, and so contmue the question. 

4th. The club shall then proceed to the 
choice of a question for the subject of next night's 
meeting. l"he president shall first propose one, 
and any other member who chooses may pro- 
pose more questions ; and whatever one of them 
is most agreeable to the majority of members, 
shall be the subject of debate next club-night. 

5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new pres- 
ident for the next meeting : the president shall 
first name one, then any of the club may name 
another, and whoever of them has the majority 
of votes shall be duly elected ; allowing the 
president the first vote, and the casting vote 
upon a par, but none other. Then after a 
general toast to mistresses of the club, they 
shall dismiss. 

6th. There shall be no private conversa- 
tion carried on during the time of debate, 
nor shall any member interrupt another while 
he is speaking, under the penalty of a rep- 
rimand from the president for the first fault, 
doubling his share of the reckoning for the sec- 
ond, trebling it for the third, and so on in pro- 
portion ior every other fault, provided alway, 
however, that any member may speak at any 
lime after leave asked, and given by the presi- 
dent. All swearing and profane language, and 
particularly all obscene and indecent conversa- 
tion, is strictly prohibited, under the same pen- 
alty as aforesaid in the first clause of this article. 

7th. No member, on any pretence whatever, 
shall mention any of the club's afliairs to any 
other person but a brother member, under the 
pain of being excluded ; and particularly if any 
member shall reveal any of the speeches or af- 
fairs of the club, with a view to ridicule or 
laugh at any of the rest of the members, he 
shall be forever excommunicated from the soci- 
ety ; and the rest of the members are desired, 
as much as possible, to avoid, and have no 
communication with him as a friend or com- 
rade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the meet- 
ings, without he can give a proper excuse for 
not attendmg ; and it is desired that every one 
who cannot attend will send his excuse with 
some other member : and he who shall be absent 
three meetings without sending such excuse, 
shall be summoned to the club-night, when if 
he fail to appear, or send an excuse, he shall be 
excluded. 

9th. The club shall not consist of more than 
sixteen members, all bachelors, belonging to 
the parish of Tarbolton : except a brother 
member marry, and in that case he may be 
continued, if the majority of the club think 



APPENDIX 



335 



proper. No person shall bo admitted a mem- 
ber of this society, without the unanimous 
consent of the club; and any member may 
withdraw from the ciub ahogether, by giving a 
notice to the president in writing of his de- 
parture. 

10th. Every man proper for a member of 
this society, must have a frank, honest, open 
heart; above any thing dirty or mean; and 
must be a profest lover of one or more of the fe- 
male sex. JNo haughty, self. conceited person, 
who looks upon hmiself as superior to the rest 
of the club, and especially no mean-spirited, 
worldly mortal, whose only will is lo heap up 
money, shall upon any pretence whatever be 
admitted. In short, the proper person for this 
society is, a cheerful, honest hearted lad, who, 
if he has a friend that is true, and a mistress 
that is kind, and as much wealth as genteelly 
to make both ends meet — is just as happy as 
this world can make him. 

NoleD. Seep. 217. 

A great number of manuscript poems were 
found among the papers of Burns, addressed to 
him by admirers of his genius, from different 
parts of Britain, as well as from Ireland and 
America. Among these was a poetical epistle 
from Mr. Telford, of Shrewsbury, of superior 
merit. It is written in the dialect of Scotland 
(of which country Mr. Telford is a native,) and 
in the versification genenilly employed by our 
poet himself. Its object is to recommend to 
him other subjects of a serious nature, similar 
to that of the Cotter's Saturday Night ; and 
the reader will find that the advice is happily 
enforced by example. It would have given the 
editor pleasure to have inserted the whole of 
this poem, which he hopes will one day see 
the light : he is happy to have obtained, in the 
mean time, his friend Mr. Telford's permission 
to insert the following extracts : 

******* 

Pursue, O Burns! thy happy style, 
"Those manner-painting strains," that while 
They bear me northward mony a mile, 

Recall the days, 
When tender joys, with pleasing smile, 

Bless'd my young ways. 

I see my fond companions rise, 
I join the happy village joys, 
I see our green hills touch the skies, 

And through the woods, 
I hear the river's rushing noise. 

Its roaring floods.* 

No distant Swiss with warmer glow, 
E'er heard his native music flow, 
Nor could his wishes stronger grow. 

Than still have mine. 
When up this ancient mountt I go. 

With songs of thine. 

O happy Bard ! thy gen'rous flame 
Was given to raise thy country's fame ; 
For this thy charming numbers came^ 
I'hy matchless lays ; 

* The banks of Esk in Dumfries- shire, are here 
alluded to. 

t A beautiful little mount, which stands immedi- 
ately before, or rather forms a part of Shrewsbury 
castle, a seat of Sir Wil.iain Pulteney, buronet. 



Then sing, and save her virtuous name, 
To latest days. 

But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views. 
Then in such verse thy soul infuse, 

With holy air ; 
And sing the course the pious choose, 

With all thy care. 

How with religious awe impressed. 
They open lay the guileless breast. 
And youth and age with fears distress'd, 

All due prepare, 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share.* 

How down ilk lang withdrawing hill, 
Successive crowds the valleys fill ; 
While pure religious converse still 

Beguiles the way, 
And gives a cast to youthful will. 
To suit the day. 

How placed along the sacred board, 
Their hoary pastor's looks adored, — 
His voice with peace and blessing stored, 

Sent from above ; 
And faith, and hope, and joy afford. 

And boundless love. 

O'er this, with warm seraphic glow. 
Celestial beings, pleased bow ; 
And, whisper'd, hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears ; 
And mark amid such scenes below, 
Their future peers. 



O mark the awful solemn scene !t 
When hoary winter clothes the plain, 
Along the snowy hills is seen 

Approaching slow, 
In mourning weeds, the village train, 

In silent wo. 

Some much respected brother's bier 
(By turns the pious task they share) 
With heavy hearts they forward bear 

Along the path, 
Where nei' hours saw in dusky air.t 
The light of death. 

And when they pass the rocky how, 
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow. 
And move around the rising knowe. 

Where far away 
The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow, 

By th' water brae. 

Assembled round the narrow grave. 
While o'er them wintery tempests rave. 
In the cold wind their gray locks wave, 

As low they lay 
Their brother's body 'mongst the lave 

Of parent clay. 

Expressive looks from each declare 
The griefs within, their bosoms bear ; 

* The Sacrament, generally administered in the 
country parishes of Scotland in ihe open air. E. 

t A Scotch funeral. E. 

X This alludes to a superstition prevalent in Esk- 
dale, and Annandale, that a lieht precedes in the 
night eveiy funeral, marking the precise path it is 
to pass. E. 



336 

One holy bow devout they share, 

Then home return. 

And think o'er all the virtues fair 

Of him they mourn. 



Say how by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) 
Congenial to th' untainted thought. 

The shepherd boy. 
Who tends his flocks on lonely height, 

Feels holy joy. 

Is aught on earth so lovely known, 
On Sabbath morn and far alone, 
His guileless soul all naked shown 

Before his God — 
Such pray'rs must welcome reach the throne, 

And bless'd abode. 

To tell I with what a heartfelt joy, 
The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; 
And all his constant, kind employ. 

Is how to give 
The best of lear he can enjoy. 

As means to live. 

The parish -school, its curious site. 
The master who can clear indite. 
And lead him on to count and write. 
Demand thy care ; 
Nor pass the ploughman's school at night 
Without a share. 

Nor yet the tenty curious lad, 
"Who o'er the ingle hings his head, 
And begs of nei'bors books to read ; 

For hence arise 
Thy country's sons, who far are spread, 
Baith bauld and wise. 



The bonnie lasses, as they spin. 
Perhaps with Allan's sangs begin, 
How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin 

Through flowery hows ; 
Where Shepherd lads their sweethearts win 
With earnest vows. 

Or may be. Burns, thy thrilling page 
May a' their virtuous thoughts engage, 
While playful youth and placid age 

In concert join. 
To bless the bard, who gay or sage. 

Improves the mind. 



Long may their harmless, simple ways. 
Nature's own pure emotions raise ; 
May still the dear romantic blaze 
Of purest love. 
Their bosoms warm to latest days. 
And ay improve. 

May still each fond attachment glow, 

O'er woods, o'er streams, o'er hills of snow. 

May rugged rocks still dearer grow ; 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which through 

The tempest howls. 

To eternize such themes as these, 
And all their happy manner seize, 
Will every virtuous bosom please ; 
And high in fame 



APPENDIX'. 



To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name. 

While all the venal tribes decay. 
That bask in flattery's flaunting ray — 
The noisome vermin of a day. 

Thy works shall gain 
O'er every mind a boundless sway, 

A lasting reign. 

When winter binds the harden'd plains, 
Around each hearth, the hoary swains 
Siill teach the rising youth thy strains ; 

And anxious say. 
Our blessing with our sons remains, 
And BuRNs's Lay ! 



No. in. 



{First inserted in the Second Edition.) 

The editor has particular pleasure in present- 
ing to the public the following letter, to the due 
understanding of which a few previous observa- 
tions are necessary. 

The Biographer of Burns was naturally de- 
sirous of hearing the opinion of the friend 
and brother of the poet, on the manner in 
which he had executed his task, before a sec- 
ond edition should be committed to the press. 
He had the satisfaction of receiving this opin- 
ion, in a letter dated the 24th of August, ap- 
proving of the Life in very obliging terms, and 
offering one or two trivial corrections as to 
names and dates chiefly, which are made in 
this edition. One or two observations were of- 
fered of a different kind. In the 319th page of 
the flrst volume, first edition, a quotation is 
made from the pastoral soncr, Ettrick Banks, 
and an explanation given of the phrase " mony 
feck," which occurs in this quotation. Suppo- 
sing the sense to be complete alter " mony," 
the editor had considered " feck" a rustic oath 
which confirmed the assertion. The words 
were therefore separated by a comma. Mr, 
Burns considered this an error. " Feck,'' he 
presumes, is the Scottish word for quantity, 
and " mony feck," to mean simply, very many. 
The editor in yielding to this authority, express- 
ed some hesitation, and hinted that the phrase 
" mony feck" was, in Burns's sense, a pleon- 
asm or barbarism which deformed this beautiful 
song.* His reply to this observation makes 
the first clause of the following letter. 

In the same communication he informed me, 
that the Mirror and the Louvger were proposed 
by him to the Conversation Club ol Mauchline, 
and that he had thoughts of giving me his sen- 
timents on the remarks I had made respecting 
the fitness of such works for such societies. 
The observations of such a man on such a sub- 
ject, the Fidiior conceived, would be received 
with particular interest by the public ; and hav- 
ing pressed earnestly for them, they will be 
found in the following letter. Of the value of 
this communication, delicacy towards his very 

* The correction made by Gilbert Burns has also 
been suggested by a writer in the Monthly M.iea- 
ziiie, under the signature of Albion : who, for taking 
this irotible, and for meniioning the author of the 
poem of Donnocht-head, deserves the Editor'sJ 
thanks. 



APPENDIX. 



337 



n^ppecfable coirespondent prevents him from j 
fvpressing his opinion. The original letter is ' 
i 1 the hands of Messrs. Caddell and Davies. 

Dinning, Dumfries-shire, 2ith Oct. 1800. 
Dear Sir, 

Yours of the 17th inst. came to my hand 
yesterday, and I sit down this afternoon to | 
\srite yon in return : but when I shall be able 
to finish all I wish to say to you, I cannot tell. 
1 am sorry your conviction is not complete re- 
specting feck. There is no doubt, that if you 
take two English words which appear synony- 
mous to tnony feck, and judge by the rules of 
English construction, it will appear a barbar- 
ism. 1 believe if you take this mode of trans- 
lating from any language, the effect will fre- 
quently be the same. But if you take the ex- 
pression mony ftck to have, as I have stated it. 
the same meaning with the English expression 
very many (and such licence every translator 
must be allowed, especially when he translates 
from a simple dialect which has never been 
subjected to rule, and where the precise mean- 
ing of words is of consequence not minutely 
attended to,) it will be well enough. One thing 
1 am certain of, that ours is the sense univer- 
sally understood in the country ; and I believe 
no Scotsman, who has lived contented at home, 
pleased wuh the simple manners, the simple 
melodies, and the simple dialect of his native 
country, unvitiated by foreign intercourse, 
" whose soul proud science never taught to 
stray," ever discovered barbarism in the song 
of Ettrick Banks. 

The story you have heard of the gable of my 
father's house falling down, is simply as fol- 
lows:* — When my father built his " clay big- 
gin," he put in two stone jambs, as they are 
called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney in 
his clay gable. The consequence was, that as 
the gable subsided, the jambs remaining firm, 
threw it oft' its centre ; and, one very stormy 
morning, when my brother was nine or ten 
years old, a little before daylight a part of the 
gable fell out, and the rest appeared so shatter- 
ed, that my mother with the young poet, had 
to be carried through the storm to a neighbor's 
house, where they remained a week, till their 
own dwelling was adjusted. That you may 
not think too meanly ot this house, or my fath- 
er's taste in building, by supposing the poet's 
description in The Vision (which is entirely a 
fancy picture) applicable to it, allow me to take 
notice to you. that the house consisted of a 
kitchen in one end, and a room in the other, 
with a fire place and chimney ; that my lather 
had constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen, 
with a small closet at the end, of the same ma- 
terials with the house ; and when altogether 
cast over, outside and in, with lime, it had a 
neat comfortable appearance, such as no family 
of the same rank, in the present improved 
style of living, would think themselves ill-lodg- 
ed in. I wish likewise to take notice, in pass- 
ing, that ahhough the " Cotter," in the Satur- 
day Night, is an exact copy of my father in his 
manners, his family-devotion, and exhortations, 
yet the other parts of the description do not ap- 

* The Editor had heard a report that the poet was 
born in the niidsi of a storm which blew down a 
part of the house. E. 

23 



ply to our family. None of us were ever " at 
service out amang the neebors roun." Instead 
of our depositing our " sairwon penny fee" 
with our parents, my father labored hard, and 
lived with the most rigid economy, that he 
might be able to keep his children at home, 
thereby having an opportunity of watching the 
progress of our young minds, and forming in 
them earlier habits of piety and virtue ; and from 
this motive alone did he engage in farming, the 
source of all his difficulties and distresses. 

When I threatened you in my last with a 
long letter on the subject of the books I recom- 
mended to the Mauchline club, and the effects 
of refinement of taste on the laboring classes 
of men, I meant merely, that I wished to 
write you on that subject with the view that, 
in some future communication to the public, 
you might take up the subject more at large ; 
that, by means of your happy manner of wri- 
ting, the attention of people of power and in- 
fluence might be fixed on it. I had little expec- 
tation, however, that I should overcome my in- 
dolence, and the difficulty of arranging my 
thoughts so far as to put my threat in execu- 
tion; till some time ago, before I had finished 
my harvest, having a call from Mr. Ewart,* 
with a message from you, pressing rne to the 
performance ot this task, 1 thought myself no 
longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved to 
set about it with my first leisure. I will now 
therefore endeavor to lay before you what has 
occurred to my mind, on a subject where peo- 
ple capable of observation and of placing their 
remarks in a proper point of view, have seldom 
an opportunity of making their remarks on 
real lile. In doing this, I may perhaps be led 
sometimes to write more in the manner of a 
person communicating information to you which 
you did not know before, and at other times 
more in the style of egotism, than I would 
choose to do to any person, in whose candor, 
and even personal good will, I had less confi- 
dence. 

There are two several lines of study that 
open to every man as he enters life : the one, 
the general science of life, of duty, and of hap- 
piness ; the other, the particular arts of his em- 
ployment or situation in society, and the sever- 
al branches of knowledge therewith connected. 
'J'his last is certainly indispensable, as nothing 
can be more disgraceful than ignorance in the 
way of one's own profession ; and whatever a 
man's speculative knowledge may be, if he is 
ill-informed there, he can neither be a useful 
nor a respectable member of society, it is never- 
thele&s true, that "the proper study of mankind 
is man ;" to consider what duties are incum- 
bent on him as a rational creature, and a mem- 
ber of society ; how he may increase or secure 
his happiness: and how he may prevent or sof- 
ten the many miseries incident to human life. I 
think the pursuit of happiness is too frequently 
confined to the endeavor after the acquisition 
of wealth. I do not wish to be considered as 
an idle dedaimer against riches, which, after all 
that can be said against them, will still be con- 
sidered by men of common sense as objects of 
imponaiice; and poverty will be felt as a sore 
evil, after all the fine things that can be said of 
its advantages; on the contrary, 1 am of opiii- 

*The Editor's friend, Mr. Peter Ewart, of Man- 
chester. EL 



338 



APPENDIX. 



ion, that a great proportion of the miseries of 
life arise from the want of economy, and a pru- 
dent attention to money, or the ill-directed or 
intemperate pursuit of it. But however valua- 
ble riches may be as the means of comfort, in- 
dependence, and the pleasure of doing good to 
others, yet I am of opinion, that they may be, 
and frequently are. purchased at too great a 
cost, and that sacrifices are made in the pursuit, 
which the acquisition cannot compensate. I 
remember hearing my worthy teacher, Mr. 
Murdoch, relate an anecdote to my father, 
which I think sets this matter in a strong 
light, and perhaps was the origin, or at least ten- 
ded to promote this way of thinking in me. 
When Mr. Murdoch left Alloway, he went to 
teach and reside in the family of an opulent far- 
mer, who had a number of sons. A neighbor 
coming on a visit, in the course of conversa- 
tion, asked the father how he meant to dispose 
of his sons. The father replied, that he had not 
determined. I'he visitor said, that were he in 
his place he would give them all good educa- 
tion and send them abroad, without (perhaps) 
having a precise idea where. The father ob- 
jected, that many young men lost their health 
in foreign countries, and many their lives. 
True, replied the visitor, but as you have a 
number of sons, it will be strange if some one 
of them does not live and make a fortune. 

Let any person who has the feelings of a 
father, comment on this story ; but though few 
will avow, even to themselves, that such views 
govern their conduct, yet do we not daily see 
people shipping off their sons (and who would 
do so by their daughters also, if there were any 
demand for them,) that they may be rich or 
perish ? 

The education of the lower classes is seldom 
considered in any other point of view than as 
the means of raising them from that station to 
which they were born, and of making a for- 
tune. I am ignorant of the mysteries of the 
art of acquiring a fortune without anything to 
begin with ; and cannot calculate, with any 
degree of exactness, the difficulties to be sur- 
mounted, the mortifications to be suffered, and 
the degradation of character to be submitted to, 
in lending one's self to be the minister of oth- 
er people's vices, or in the practice of rapine, 
fraud, oppression, or dissimulation, in the pro- 
gress ; but even when the wishcd-for end is at- 
tained, it may be questioned whether happiness 
be much increased by the change. When I 
have seen a fortunate adventurer of the lower 
ranks of life returned from the East or West 
Indies, with all the hauteur of a vulgar mind 
accustomed to be served by slaves ; assuming 
a character which from the early habits of life, 
he is ill-fitted to support ; displaying magnifi- 
cence which raises the envy of some, and the 
contempt of others ; claiming an equality with 
the great, which they are unwilling to allow ; 
inly pining at the precedence of the hereditary 
gentry ; maddened by the polished insolence of 
some of the unworthy part of them ; seeking 
pleasure in the society of men who can conde- 
scend to flatter him, and listen to his absurdity 
for the sake of a good dinner and good wine : 1 
cannot avoid concluding, that his brother, or 
companion, who, by a diligent application lo 
the labors of agriculture, or some useful me- 
chanic employment, and the careful husbanding 



of his gains, has acquired a competence in his 
station, is a much happier, and, in the eye of a 
person who can take an enlarged view of man- 
kind, a much more respectable man. 

But the votaries of wealth may be considered 
as a great number of candidates striving for a 
few prizes : and whatever addition the success- 
ful may make to their pleasure or happiness, 
the disappointed will always have more to suf- 
fer, I am afraid, than those who abide conten- 
ted in the station to which they were born. I 
wish, therefore, the education of the lower 
classes to be promoted and directed to their im- 
provement as men, as the means of increasing 
their virtue, and opening to them new and dig- 
nified sources of pleasure and happiness. I have 
heard some people object to the education of 
the lower classes of men, as rendering them 
less useful, by abstracting them from their pro- 
per business ; others, as tending to make them 
saucy to their superiors, impatient of their con- 
dition, and turbulent subjects ; while you, with 
more humanity, have your fears alarmed, lest 
the delicacy of mind, induced by that sort of 
education and reading I recommend, should 
render the evils of their situation insupportable 
to them. I wish to examine the validity of each 
of these objections, beginning with the one you 
have mentioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criticism of 
my favorite books, the Mirror and Lounger, al- 
though I understand there are people who think 
themselves judges, who do not agree with you. 
The acquisition of knowledge, except what is 
connected with human life and conduct, or the 
particular business of his employment, does 
not appear to me to be the fittest pursuit for a 
peasant. I would say with the poet, 

*' How empty learning, and how vain is art. 
Save where it guides the life, or mends the heart." 

There seems to be a considerable latitude in 
the use of the word taste. I understand it to 
be the perception and relish of beauty, order, 
or any thing, the contemplation of which gives 
pleasure and delight to the mind. I suppose it 
is in this sense you wish it to be understood. If 
I am right, the taste which these books are cal- 
culated to cultivate (besides the taste for fine 
writing, which many of the papers tend to im- 
prove and to gratify,) is what is proper, consis- 
tent, and becoming in human character and 
conduct, as almost every paper relates to these 
subjects. 

I am sorry I have not these books by me, 
that I might point out some instances, I remem- 
ber two ; one the beautiful story of La Roch, 
where, beside the pleasure one derives from a 
beautiful simple story told in M'Kenzie's hap- 
piest manner, the mind is led to taste with 
heartfelt rapture, the consolation to be derived 
in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and 
trust in Almighty God. The other, the story 

of general W , where the reader is led to 

have a high relish for that firmness of mind 
which disregards appearances, the common 
forms and vanities of life, for the sake of doing 
justice in a case which was out of the reach ot 
human laws. 

Allow me then to remark, that if the morality 
of these books is subordinate to the cultivation 
of taste ; that taste, that refinement of mind 
and delicacy of sentiment which they are inten- 



APPENDIX. 



339 



ded to give, are the strongest guard and surest 
foundation of morality and virtue. Other mor- 
alists guard, as it were, the overt act; these 
papers, by exalting duty into sentiment, are cal- 
culated to make every deviation from rectitude 
and oropriety of conduct, painful to the mind, 

" Whose tern per' d powers, 
Refine at length, and every passion wears 
A chaaler, milder, more aitraclive mien." 

I readily grant you. that the refinement of 
mind which 1 contend for, increases our sensi- 
bility to the evils of life ! but what station of 
life is without its evils ! There seems to be no 
euch thing as perfect happiness in this world, 
and we must balance the pleasure and the pain 
which we derive from taste, before we can pro- 
perly appreciate it in the case before us. 1 ap- 
prehend that on a minute examination it will 
appear, that the evils peculiar to the lower ranks 
of life, derive their power to wound us, more 
from the suggestions of false pride, and the 
*' contagion of luxury, weak and vile," than 
the refinement of our taste. It was a favorite 
remark of my brother''s, that there was no part 
of the constitution of our nature, to which we 
were more indebted, than that by which "Cus- 
tom makes things familiar and easy" (a copy 
Mr. Murdoch used to set us to write,) and 
there is little labor which custom will not make 
easy to a man m health, if he is not ashamed 
of his employment, or does not begin to com- 
pare his situation with those he may see going 
about at their ease. 

But the man of enlarged mind feels the re- 
spect due to him as a man ; he has learned that 
no employment is dishonorable in itself; that 
while he performs aright the duties of that 
Btation in which God has placed him, he is as 
great as a king in the eyes of Him whom he is 
principally desirous to please ; for the man of 
taste, who is constantly obliged to labor, must 
of necessity be religious. If you teach him 
only to reason, you may make him an atheist, 
a demagogue, or any vile thing ; but if you 
teach him to feel, his feelings can only find 
their proper and natural relief in devotion and 
religious resignation. He knows that those 
people who are to appearance at ease, are not 
without their share of evils, and that even toil 
itself is not destitute of advantages. He listens 
to the words of his favorite poet : 
" O mortal man, that livest here by toil, 

Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ! 
Thai like an emmet thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And certes, there is for it reason great ; 

Although sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, 
And cnrse thy star, and early drudge, and late ; 
Withouten that would come an heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale !" 

And, while he repeats the words, the grateful 
recollection comes across his mind, how often 
he has derived ineffable pleasure from the sweet 
song of "Nature's darling child. '^ I can say, 
from my own experience, that there is no sort of 
farm-labor inconsistent with the most refined 
and pleasurable state of the mind that I am ac- 
quainted with, thrashing alone excepted. That, 
indeed, I have always considered as insupporta- 
ble drudgery, and think the ingenious mechanic 
who invented the thrashing machine, ought to 
have a statue among the benefactors of his 
country, and should be placed in the niche next 



to the person who introduced the culture of po- 
tatoes into this island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance in the 
education of the common people is, to prevent 
the intrusion of artificial wants. I bless the 
memory of my worthy father for almost every 
thing in the dispositions of my mind, and my 
habits of life, which I can approve of: and for 
none more than the pains he took to impress 
my mind with the sentiment, that nothing was 
more unworthy the character of a man, than 
that his happiness should in the least depend 
on what he should eat or drink. So early did 
he impress my mind with this, that although I 
was as fond of sweetmeats as children generally 
are, yet I seldom laid out any of the half-pence 
which relations or neighbors gave me at fairs, 
in the purchase of them ; and if I did, every 
mouthful I swallowed was accompanied with 
shame and remorse ; and to this hour I never 
indulge in the use of any delicacy, but I feel a 
considerable degree of self-reproach and alarm 
for the degradation of the human character. 
Such a habit of thinking I consider as of great 
consequence, both to the virtue and happiness 
of men in the lower ranks of life. And thus. 
Sir, I am of opinion, that if their minds are 
early and deeply imjiressed with a sense of the 
dignity of man, as such ; with the love of inde- 
pendence and of industry, economy and tem- 
perance, as the most obvious means of making 
themselves independent, and the virtues most 
becoming their situation, and necessary to their 
happiness ; men in the lower ranks of life may 
partake of the pleasures to be derived from the 
perusal of books calculated to improve the 
mind and refine the taste, without any danger 
of becoming more unhappy in their situation 
or discontented with it. Nor do I think there 
is any danger of their becoming less useful. 
There are some hours every day that the most 
constant laborer is neither at work nor asleep. 
These hours are either appropriated to amuse- 
ment or to sloth. If a taste for employing 
these hours in reading were cultivated, I do not 
suppose that the return to labor would be more 
difficult. Every one will allow, that the attach- 
ment to idle amusements, or even to sloth, has 
as powerful a tendency to abstract men from 
their proper business, as the attachment to 
books ; while the one dissipates the mind, and 
the other tends to increase its powers of self- 
government. To those who are afraid that the 
improvement of the minds of the common peo- 
ple might be dangerous to the state, or the es- 
tablished order of society, I would remark, that 
turbulence and commotion are certainly very 
inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. Let 
the matter be brought to the test of experience 
and observation. Of what description of peo- 
ple are mobs and insurrections composed ? 
Are they not universally owing to the want of 
enlargement and improvement of mind among 
the common people ? Nay, let any one recol- 
lect the characters of those who formed the 
calmer and more deliberate associations, which 
lately gave so much alarm to the government 
of this country. I suppose few of the common 
people who were to be found in such societies, 
had the education and turn of mind I have been 
endeavoring to recommend. Allow me to sug- 
gest one reason for endeavoring to enlighten 
the minds of the common people. Their mor.« 



aio 



APPENDIX 



als have hitherto been guarded by a sort of dim 
religious awe, which from a variety of causes, 
seems wearing off. I thinli. the alteration in 
this respect considerable, in the short period of 
my observation. I have already given my 
opinion of the effects of refinement of mind on 
morals and virtue. Whenever vulgar minds 
begin to shake off the dogmas of tne rehgion 
in which they have been educated, the pnigiess 
is quick and immediate to downright intidelity ; 
and nothing but refinement of mind can enable 
them to distinguish between the pure essence 
of religion, and the gross systems which men 
have been perpetually connecting it with. In 
addition to what has already been done for the 
education of the common people of this coun- 
try, in the establishment of parish schools, I 
wish to see the salaries augmented in some 
proportion to the present expense of living, and 
the earnings of people of similar rank, endow- 
ments, and usefulness in society ; and I hope 
that the liberality of the present age will be no 
longer disgraced by refusing, to so useful a 
class of men, such encouragement as may 
make parish schools worth the attention of men 
fitted for the important duties of that office. In 
filling up the vacancies. I would have more at- 
tention paid to the candidate's capacity of read- 
ing the English language with grace and pro- 
priety ; to his understanding thoroughly, and 
having a high relish for the beauties of English 
authors, both in poetry and prose ; to that good 
sense and knowledge of human nature which 
would enable him to acquire some influence on 
the minds and affections of his scholars ; to the 
general worth of his character, and the love of 
nis king and his country, than to his proficiency 
in the knowledge of Latin and Greek. I 
would then have a sort of high English class 
established, not only for the purpose of teach- 
ing the pupils to read in that graceful and agree- 
able manner that might make them fond of 
reading, but to make them understand what 
they read, and discover the beauties of the au- 
tfior, in composition and sentiment. I would 
have established in every parish, a small circu- 
lating library, consisting of the books which 
the young people had read e.xtracts from in the 
collections they had read at school, and any 
other books well calculated to refine the mind, 
improve the moral feelings, recommend the 
practice of virtue, and coinmunicaie such 
knowledge as might be useful and suitable to 
the laboring classes of men. I would have the 
schoolmaster act as librarian, and in recom- 
mending books to his young friends, formerly 



his pupils, and letting in the light of them upon 
their young minds, he should have the assist- 
ance of the minister. If once such education 
were become general, the low delights of the 
public house, and other scenes of riot and de- 
pravity, would be contemned and neglected ; 
while industry, order, cleanliness, and every 
virtue which taste and independence of mind 
could recommend, would prevail and flourish. 
'I'hus possessed of a virtuous and enlightened 
populace, with hgh delight I should consider 
my native country as at the head of all the na- 
tions of the earth, ancient or n)odern. 

'I'hus, Sir, have I executed my threat to the 
fullest extent, in regard to the length of my let- 
ter. W 1 had not presumed on doing it more to 
my liking, I should not have undertaken it ; but 
I have not time to attempt it anew ; nor if I 
would, am 1 certain that I should succeed any 
better. I have learned to have less confidence 
in my capacity of writing on such subjects. 

1 am much obliged by your kind inquiries 
about my situation and prospects. I am much 
pleased with the soil of this farm, and with the 
terms on which I possess it. 1 receive great 
encour.igement likewise in building, enclosing, 
and other conveniences, from my landlord, Mr. 
G S Monteith, whose general character and 
conduct, as a landlord and country gentleman, 
I am highly pleased with. But the land is in 
such a state as to require a considerable imme- 
diate outlay of money in the purchase of manure, 
the grubbing ot brush-wood, removing of 
stones. 6lc. which twelve years' struggle with a 
farm of a cold, ungrateful soil, has but ill prepa- 
red me for. If 1 can get these things done, 
however, to my mind, I think there is next to a 
certainly that in five or six years I shall be in a 
hopeful way of attaining a situation which I think 
as eligible for happiness as any one I know ; for 
I have always been of opinion, that if a man bred 
to the habits of a farming life, who possesses a 
farm of good soil, on such terms as enables him 
easily to pay all demands, is not happy, he ought 
to look some where else than to his situation for 
the causes of his uneasiness. 

I beg you will present my most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remember 
me to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr. Roscoe, 
junior, whose kind attentions to me, when in 
Liverpool, I shall never forget. 

I am, dear Sir, your most obedient, and 
Much obliged, humble Servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 
To James Currie, M. D, F. E. S. ) 
Liverpool. y 



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